#and here i am in my pre convention crunch

[mangozic]

🦑

[adelaidedrubman]

look at that, i’m finally posting fic that isn’t just a joke. trying to get back in my groove with a really old kinktober prompt from this list i didn’t get done in time. posting now in the spirit of forcing myself to return to my “do what the fuck you want” era but also genuinely nervous because it’s been so long since i’ve posted anything semi serious let alone smut so queuing for 5 AM on a monday with no tags and hoping nobody actually sees it <3 if you do, keep scrolling

wordcount: 7k

pairing: john x jestiny | pre-reaping au: part iii | part i | part ii | (no need to actually read, pure smut)

warnings: NSFW!!!!!!! oral sex. throat fucking. rimming. inadequate discussion prior to any of these things. all of the aforementioned occurring on a church altar. arguably semi public? (debate of the hour, actually). proceed responsibly.

John knew, of course, that Deputy Rook would be the officer to respond.

For one, because he knew she was on duty, both from the schedule Nancy dutifully provided him at the beginning of every shift and from his own… information collection and personal intervention, which he knew had ultimately resulted in her schedule being shifted so that she was on duty for most of the weekend, only being granted a brief reprieve on Friday evenings (the time she’d given him the most trouble) before ultimately having to report back bright and early on Saturday morning, granted just enough time to sleep before doing the same song and dance on Sunday, finally allowed a “weekend” off on Monday and Tuesday, and…

Well, it’s not that he would ever plan his own life around her schedule, but he was certainly aware of it, as much as he was aware of every other mundane ongoing in the county.

And yes, perhaps even after he knew the necessary evidence should already in place he’d waited (less than twenty four hours) to officially “discover” the crime he was requesting an officer respond to. Not to plan things according to her schedule, of course, but…

But he was well aware that he was finally calling it in when she was the only officer on street duty, with less than an hour left on her shift. And he hoped that meant she’d be eager to finish up business and leave, and be less likely to give him grief about reporting the matter at all. That’s the only reason he stalled on reporting, truly.

He reassured himself of as much as his heart jumped in his chest at the first sound of tires crunching against the gravel road, causing him to leap up from the pew and scurry towards the window to ensure it was in fact a Hope County Police Department cruiser finally popping up over the horizon.

He studied the faint outline of his reflection in the window for a moment as he mentally rehearsed the interaction he’d accounted for (not planned), fluffing his beard and slicking back his hair before making his way to the door, heart giving another offbeat flutter as he confirmed the flash of copper hair visible from the driver’s seat.

“Deputy,” he greeted with a smile as she finally exited the car, leaning casually in the doorway. Her presence did lend the air a certain electric quality. Sure, they’d been together before, and alone. But never in the broad daylight, and so far from any other civilization, removed as Eden’s Convent was from the main roadways. “I’m relieved to see you’re finally here.”

She merely rubbed fingers against obviously tired eyelids, trying to massage away bags before looking up at him with bloodshot eyes. “You wanted something?”

“To report a crime,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You couldn’t have done that at the station like last week?”

“It’s an urgent crime this time,” he lamented, stepping back into the vestibule of the church and waving for her to follow. “And there might be fresh evidence to investigate.”

She let out a long, groaning exhale, massaging her temples for a beat more before strolling up the steps to meet him. “What’s the crime?”

“Trespass.”

“You’re going with trespass again?”

“I’m reporting,” he spat out, sharp and firm, “A trespass, yes. Or anything else you see fit to charge it as.”

“Great,” she said with a roll of her eyes, before letting them fall along the doorway he stood in. “So did they break in here?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You wouldn’t know?”

“I wasn’t there.”

“Of course not.”

“And I haven’t found any evidence of use of force at this door, although we do keep it unlocked, so —”

“So there by definition couldn’t have been, so we should move on to whatever the fuck it is you do want to show me.”

He huffed, giving her an indignant look before waving her on through the greeting room into the main building. “But I noticed footprints,” he said, pointing down to the imprints left in flakes of sawdust atop the red carpeting of the aisle, as he stepped just to the side of it. “And that made me think something was off.”

“Uh huh,” she grunted. “And you caught someone breaking in when, exactly —?”

“I didn’t,” he waved away, continuing on, leading her towards the projector broadcasting onto screens hanging on either side of the main stage. “Until I checked our security camera footage the next day.”

“Okay.”

“And you won’t believe what I saw.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You will,” he agreed with an emphatic nod. “This video was taken at 1:42 AM last night,” he explained, before pressing play.

He looked over his shoulder to confirm her eyes were adequately trained on the screen as she followed him up towards the stage of the church, gaze bouncing between her and the image of three shadowy figures stepping into the hallway he played on screen for her.

“There,” he exclaimed, finally pressing his thumb down on the power off button. “You see?”

“Seems like some folks came into your church late last night,” she scoffed.

“Right,” he nodded again. “And of course I don’t yet have enough evidence to prove it without further investigation, but I highly suspect it was one of the hooligans King’s Hot Springs Hotel just next door is constantly renting rooms to, which the owner would be responsible for under dram shop provisions, which —”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand “So what do you want me to put in the police report, exactly?”

“Well,” he began, enunciating pointedly, “I’m hoping everything I’ve reported.”

“Right,” she agreed, flopping down her hand again. “I can jot down a note somewhere John Seed thinks someone came into his church, but what do you want me to actually report?”

“A trespass,” he hissed back, impatiently.

“I mean,” she deadpanned, eyes still half lidded. “You haven’t shown me anything to report as a trespass, or any other crime, so far.”

“Haven’t shown you —?” he began in disbelief. “Haven’t shown you anything?! Deputy, I am currently showing you —”

“You’re showing me a fuckin’ church, John,” she spat out with a sneer. “If you could show me any evidence of property damage, that’d be one thing, but even if everything you were telling me was true, you cannot fuckin’ trespass upon a goddamn church.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied, still slow and measured and ringing with politeness as he paused with thoughtful calm to accentuate the contrast with her belligerent rudeness. He shifted his arms back to press palms against the raised stage of the altar behind him, lifting himself to sit casually at its ledge, smiling to himself as she darted eyes to the side to quickly conceal the way they’d automatically settled at his lap as he propped himself up. “Is your contention that we should be denied equal protection under the law simply because we’re a place of worship? You’re refusing to investigate simply because we’re a church?”

“My contention,” she hissed, hooking thumbs into her belt loops and jutting her chin upward in a pitiful attempt to appear suddenly energized and intimidating as she stepped forward and glared up at him, “is that churches are by definition not covered by the criminal trespass statute.”

He bent at the waist to lean down and meet her challenging glare, flaunting his high ground. “It would be unconstitutional to exclude churches from the protections of the trespass statute. The Free Exercise clause of the —”

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ —”

“— of the First Amendment explicitly prohibits excluding from a publicly available protection —”

“— excluded from fuck all, we responded to the fucking call didn’t we —”

“— based purely on the status of religious affiliation —”

“— sure as shit does not prohibit a content neutral definition that happens to exclude your fucking situation, which if you took the time to think through this dumbass plan you’d know is —”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he shouted, pitch still rising with the polite inflection he used the first time even as his volume grew loud enough to echo off the church walls, because for some reason that one tried his patience in earnest. “Are you really qualified to decide I’m exempt from reporting a crime on constitutional grounds? Are they teaching the First Amendment at the Montana Police Academy now? Please, tell me, Deputy, what’s the response code for a violation of our most basic civil liberties?”

She pursed her lips together as she gave him a wide, closed mouth smile that made dimples emerge just as amber eyes narrowed to glare at him, slapping an open palm down on the carpeted floor he sat on to signal she’d lost her patience too.

“They’re teaching it in fuckin’ grade school, John,” she replied in a tone both softer in volume and higher in pitch as it hissed from the back of her throat, with an inflection that seemed designed to imply she really did pity him for not already knowing. “It’s one fucking sentence in a document written over two hundred years ago, even us simple folk have gotten around to —”

“With two hundred years worth of case law! Which I suppose they must have taught you at —”

“Don’t need fuckin’ case law to read the fucking statute, which the Police Academy does teach,” she spat back, forcefully enough for him to feel the heat of her huffing breaths fall against the exposed portions of his chest, making it very difficult for him to resist arching into it, or tugging at her hair to pull her away from him, the vile creature. “Which if you didn’t bother to check, requires the suspect to have entered or remained unlawfully in an occupied structure —”

“Or the premise of another, if you didn’t bother to read on to the second subsection, which apparently you don’t —”

“— says the man who read the Free Exercise Clause before the Establishment Clause, apparently —”

“— and just in case you haven’t checked, this is privately owned property, legally indistinguishable from any other privately owned building —”

“Oh, is it? Then what do you pay in taxes on the place, John?”

“ — completely irrelevant, it’s private property!”

“— that you represent as open to the public,” she replied with a scowl, leaning in closer, puffed out chest nearly touching his abdomen as she stepped forward to stand defiantly between his open and dangling legs. “So I don’t see how someone entering a building open to the public could be guilty of trespassing,” she said with a bored roll of her eyes.

“The same way any privately owned business —”

“So is your fuckin’ contention then,” she sneered, cocking her head with a crinkle of her nose, “that privately owned establishments that open their doors to the public maintain their right to exclude visitors?”

“Of course.”

“Well,” she drawled with a slow roll of her tongue to draw out the ‘L’ sound, tapping a hand atop his knee. “I’m sure Mary May Fairgrave will be thrilled to hear that, because it’s my understanding some jackass has been coming in her bar every Friday night claiming she can’t kick him out because —”

“— would be a violation of the First Amendment to exclude on the basis of religion —”

“— on the basis of you not fucking buying anything, which if you —”

“— and besides that go there during regular business hours, which —”

“— which bars have, on account of bein’ businesses, whereas a fuckin�� church —”

“— would be illegal to treat us differently simply because —”

“— would be illegal to give y’all special treatment and not recognize the differences between —”

“— for special treatment, only asking to be treated exactly the same as —”

“So is your contention then,” she barked loudly enough to echo off the walls in interruption, “that, aside from the fact that Mary May pays her fucking taxes, your church is otherwise, for all intents and purposes, legally indistinguishable from the Spread Eagle?”

“Yes, and entitled to all the same protections.”

“No differences?”

“None de facto, for our purposes.”

She pulled the corners of her mouth down and curled her upper lip, making the indents of dimples sink into her cheeks and the creases of wrinkles scrunch along her little nose, and truly only she could behave atrociously enough to make the sight more infuriating than adorable.

“So I should just ignore that it’s a place of worship, and treat this place…” she paused to wave in gesture, letting her shoulders shrug with a forced mimic of a single huff of laughter, “exactly like I would the Spread Eagle?”

“If that little thought experiment helps you to do your job, then by all means.”

“Alright,” she chirped too pleasantly, pursed lips now curling into a smile, dimples deepening further.

“Alright,” he repeated back.

“Alright,” she agreed again, raising auburn brows.

“Al —” he only managed to spit out the first syllable in repetition, the second swallowed down with a sharp gasp for air as she reached a hand forward to press flush against the front of his jeans, rubbing her palm up and down along the seam with a rush of sudden, shocking friction. “I — Jessie, what the hell are you… Fuck —”

“Per your fuckin’ orders,” she rumbled, a breathy mix between a purr and a growl, “I am treating this place exactly like I would the Spread Eagle,” she explained plainly as she paused the brushing of her hand to grip him tightly, bringing her free hand to the small of his back to scoot him further towards the ledge of the altar and into her touch. “And this is usually the best way to get you to shut up there.”

“For fuck’s sake J — Deputy Rook,” he forced himself to hiss out with biting disapproval, despite the way his hips began to rock forward of their own volition, then jerked sharply upward to chase her touch as she lifted her hand to work at his belt instead. “We are in the middle of…” he trailed off, unable to finish the statement even to himself, digging teeth into his bottom lip as his eyes trailed along the rows of pews.

“We’re on private property, John,” she cooed, honeyed thick with venom, tugging at his waistband with now practiced efficiency to push his pants and briefs down to his ankles. “No real reason to treat it any different, is there?” she taunted, brushing fingers along his thighs and eyes along arousal now fully exposed and undeniable and aching for her touch.

“In fact,” she hummed, bringing the hand to his neckline instead, pulling him down to briefly soothe him with an unusually tender kiss as she turned fingers to the buttons of his shirt, “we’re on your private property, outside of open hours,” she added in a warm pant against his lips as she parted, undoing the final button of his shirt before shoving a hand against his now bare chest to push him down to lay flat atop the platform then sliding the fingers along his sides, back down to the legs she settled between. “I think we could even get a little crazier than we do there, don’t you?”

And with that her lips found the head of his cock with the same undelayed swoop downward that her hands found the tops of his thighs in, pinning them down flat to keep him in place as she dipped her head to take him in her mouth, restraining him from fully arching into the delicious sensation.

Fuck, he cursed internally as she slid pursed lips back up just as quickly, leaving a pleasured shiver of skin crying out for more in her wake.

But god, was sucking his cock really what qualified as ‘getting crazy’ to her, though? He might have misjudged just how adventurous the little devil was. It could have easily been called vanilla if it not lent a certain novelty by their particular location (which was a distressing drawback to him, of course, something to push out of his mind to enjoy himself). And, well — the fact that their ledgers on head given were notably unbalance thus far, and of all the sinful things they had done it was the first time he was feeling the warm plush of her mouth around him.

And fuck, the fact that she was fucking good at it, he admitted to himself with a quick little spasm of his spine, hips bucking upward and a hand shooting out to grasp at the back of her neck, tugging with restless frustration along the stray baby hairs falling from that damned tight twisted braid she always seemed to wear on duty, wishing desperately he had a full loose mane to pull a proper fistful of.

Instead, he was forced to simply settle for brushing fingers up the base of her skull, slipping beneath the beginning pleats of her braid to thread between taut strands and press downward in eager encouragement for her to keep going.

And she responded to his touch with her own little show of encouragement, shifting the hands pinning his thighs down to bring one up to press against the base of his pelvis, causing the pressure already flooding him there to shoot a quick, dizzying bolt of electricity through his length, making him twitch rigid in her mouth. She slid the other hand towards the center to massage along his inner thigh with a contrasting gentle, almost teasing caress.

But no amount of gentleness could stop him from thrusting his hips up freely now that he was allowed the purchase to do so, almost ashamed at how quickly he shed any hesitance brought by their location to fuck freely into the slick pressure of her mouth and tight grip of her hand now wrapping around the base of his cock.

He tossed his head back against the floorboards in full surrender to it, bucking more frantically as she egged him on with equal parts roughness and gentleness; the tight pumping of her fist at his base and the sweet stroking of her fingers up the sensitive skin of his inner thigh reassuring him that she could take every little thrust.

Although he was quickly losing the ability to restrain himself, anyways, as ecstatic pressure seemed to build from every source. As the bobbing of her head to slide the warm pressure of full, pursed lips and flexing tongue down his length kept picking up speed. And the grip of the hand pumping along the expanse of length she couldn’t swallow clenched ever tighter.

And the hand brushing along his inner thigh kept creeping up and up and up, until he had to spread his legs wider just to accommodate the gentle, teasing fingertips along their path, and were then tickling along the creases at their top and still inching further, and — was she — ?

He swallowed and gasped, throat suddenly dry with the realization. They’d reached just past even, and he could no longer deny understanding of the meaning of the way they danced along the soft skin of his inner cheeks now, asking silent permission, daring interruption of their clear path.

An interruption he simply couldn’t bring himself to make when the thrilling shiver each brush of fingertips sent up his spine grew stronger and more focused the closer she came to his center. Until the shiver was finally a jolt that made his arched spine stiffen straight as she finally brushed along the sensitive rim at the crevice she spent so long teasing, and he shot up to his elbows at the sensation.

“J-Jessie,” he whimpered out in pleading, without being able to focus lust flurried mind on exactly what he was pleading for.

Her only immediate answer was the sudden upward flick of tawny eyes to train directly on him as she swallowed him yet again, gaze trailing along the quiver his bottom lip gave in response to the ghosting brush of her thumb along his hole.

“Jessie, please,” he panted out a little more desperately, willing himself to really mean it as a signal to pause this time.

John forced himself to break from her stare and focus eyes blurred from being squeezed shut tight to the point of watering on the rows of pews behind her, dart from the arched windows and aisles of red carpeting that served as visual evidence of just where they were. God, it was bad enough he’d been weak and at the mercy of sin enough to let her go down on him here — to even get aroused at her devilish tricks in the first place, for that matter. To add to that actually finishing here, and like that… “Fuck Jessie, we’re still — we’re still in —”

He still couldn’t manage to finish the thought before she jerked her head upward and let him fall from her mouth with a soft, wet pop of those now swollen lips. She let her fist loosen from around his base as well, while the hand between his legs stayed stubbornly in place, caressing teasingly just outside his rim.

Before he could even bother to choke out words again she rose to stand, now leaning over him in his place still half reclined and splayed out atop the altar for her, free hand moving to caress back and forth along the ridge of his hip bone as the thumb of the other finally pressed flush against the puckered muscles they’d been teasing the edge of.

“Fuck, you’re sensitive, huh?” she rasped with doe eyes wide in focus on his lap as if to show clearly that she’d seen the shameful, needy little twitch his cock gave in response to pressure against his hole even without hardness itself being touched.

“Jessie,” he whined out uselessly yet again, completely paralyzed between asking her to stop out of shame and staving off the worse torture of losing her touch.

“John?” she rumbled hoarsely, her soprano particularly gravelly in the afterglow of his fucking her throat.

“Will you just fucking —” the words caught in the dried and sore flesh of his own throat to stick there painfully as she continued. He thrust grasping hands out to wrap around her arms just above the crook of her elbows and pull himself more upright, look into her face more directly.

“Let’s finish this at my place,” he offered, best compromise he could think of, even though the mere ten minute wait of the car ride even felt intolerable to him at this point, badly as he needed her. “Take me home, if you’re inclined to touch me like that,” he reasoned, knitting brows upward in pleading. “We’ll actually have what we need there, to do it properly and — fuck,” he gasped as she gave another quick brush along wrinkled skin, biting into his lower lip before continuing. “And could take our time, and wouldn’t —” And wouldn’t be in the building he was entrusted with keeping holy. “And not have to rush. Come on, we can forget the police report, if you’ll just take me home now.”

But the soft smile that spread along plumped lips seemed more smug than acquiescing, pulling slightly crooked to one side. “You’d forget this entire little stunt of yours just to get my fingers in you?”

“Yes,” he sighed, feeling creeping shame at how easily he made the concession, but not as much as he was sure he’d feel letting her continue sucking him off and playing with his asshole on a fucking church altar. “You can do whatever you like to me, if you just leave with me now.”

He felt briefly hopeful with the sprawling flush of pink creeping along her cheeks at the promise.

Before she clicked her tongue against her teeth and shook her head in the negative, finally removing the hand from between his legs and shifting arms up to press forearms against his, holding him by the elbows.

“Sorry, baby. I’m still on the clock whether you’re done making up fake crimes for me or not,” she whispered with a devastatingly chaste kiss to the sweat slickened skin of his forehead, gripping his arms to guide him back flat again. “But I’ll still take care of you best I can,” she added, trailing those same butterfly kisses down his torso, along the bones of his hips before finally gripping the base of his cock again.

And she met the swift upward arch of his hips from the sudden pang of pleasure sparking through him anew with a kiss to the tops of his thighs to ease the tensing limbs back down, ghosting her kisses inward again as she crouched between his legs. She trailed lips upward in the same path her fingertips had walked moments early, finally pressing a kiss to his inner cheek.

Then a warm, heavy breath fell along his cleft, practically already wetting him with its steaminess, the promising heat of it making his cheeks and thighs tremble in involuntary jerks of parting and unparting to chase that ever building storm of sensation, rewarded with stray little kisses that made him gasp for air, and —

And fuck was she really going to put her mouth on him there? And while they were here? In the middle of — fuck, he couldn’t allow himself to even think about it, squeezed his eyes shut tight so that he didn’t even have to look at the reality of where he was as she finally closed the last bit of distance to press that warm, thick tongue against his hole directly.

An embarrassingly sharp gasp caused his chest to heave as she dragged the plush cushion of her tongue forward along his hole to just beneath his sac, let out as a choked groan as she flicked it back down to slide the slick underside along the same path.

“Fuck yes,” she craned back slightly to purr without slowing the pumping of her hand, plump bottom lip barely brushing against his hole now as she mumbled the words against his skin. “Don’t hold back any of those pretty noises for me, baby. I want you to let me hear just how good it feels. I want you to be so fuckin’ loud for me God himself can hear how good I make you feel.”

And fuck the wretched, wrecked cry he bleated out in response to that could be heard echoing all the way off of the high beam ceilings in offering, shame at himself and anger at her chased out with the white hot molten rush jolting through him from the massage of her tongue flush against his entrance and a harsh stroke of her hand to glide precum dewing at his tip down his full length, making everything on him slick with want.

She flexed that full, flattened tongue for a few more beats of luxurious giving, as if to make sure every little nerve sparked to life to greedily accept her generous pressure before she lightened it to more teasing force. And then finally slid tongue back until just its tip trailed along the outermost edge of the sensitive ring, slowing the stroke of her hand as she did.

“Fuck,” he cursed, slamming a fist down in frustration at the abrupt retreat. “Stop fucking teasing already,” he hissed, arching frantically, scooting forward so that his thighs now rested fully atop her shoulders, legs practically wrapping around her neck. (In the back of his mind he noted what an ironic reversal it was of the first position they’d ever found themselves in, but couldn’t bear to dwell on it, on the thought of anything but getting more more more.) “Q-Quit fucking around and just g-get me off if you’re going to do it.”

But he knew the moment she neglected to meet his outburst with usual scolding for being too demanding, instead bringing her free hand up to cradle his thigh without bothering to lift her head or retract teasing tongue to spit out a clever retort, that it was useless. He was condemned to lay back a helpless mess of pealing moans and restless squirming as that wet tip circled him, slowly but surely creeping in towards where his body begged most for attention.

And fuck, after more gasping breaths than he thought he could survive in waiting as she continued her cruel path, at least she was merciful enough when she did finally reach his opening, stiffening her tongue to not waste another second not lavishing him with its full attention and finally building back up the pace of the hand wrapped around him. She lapped and licked at his entrance relentlessly now, driving him into a whole other gear of needy frenzy.

Until finally she set a steady rhythm in flicking her tongue to poke just barely past the ring of delicate folds and tightly clenched muscles, a regular pace of tiny wet tip pumping along the rim, just deep enough to tease him with an echo of the sensation of getting truly and properly fucked.

God, it was somehow both too much, sending his nerves into overdrive, and also not enough, making him desperately wish there was by some miracle proper lube around so she could do more than just teasing laps, thrust those free fingers currently digging into his thighs deep inside him instead.

But alas, surely not. They were, after all, in the middle of a church, he reminded himself with a sick little thrill that traveled through him with a deep shudder.

His thighs quivered in their place rested atop her shoulders from the rush of it, only growing more needy and shaking from her hand brushing up and down to soothe the tremor, rewarding him in tandem with a tight squeeze of the hand pumping his length and a deep, gravelly moan hummed against his skin, vibrating through every hungry nerve ending, sparking all the way up his spine and making him clench and tighten.

His hand curled and clawed restlessly at the carpet of the altar as he bucked hips against her mouth to frantically chase the sensation, gripping for purchase, for anything to anchor himself as he strained and pushed against her flexing tongue. The hand caressing his leg wrapped around to pull it outward, spreading him out even more to give herself better access, then slid up his thigh up to reach for his desperately grasping fist instead, twining their fingers as her tongue increased its pace. Her mouth stayed too busy pressed flush against him to speak, but she gave another rising hum in encouragement, squeezing the hand she held as her thumb brushed up and down along his skin in the embrace.

And it was that gentle little stroke of her thumb against the side of his hand that truly drove him over the edge — the fact that fuck she was really touching him so tenderly, affectionately, while the tip of her tongue wriggled in his ass.

It was simply too much, made every part of him tremble, locking that sweet caressing hand in a shaking vice grip while his rim fluttered to cling to her flexing tongue and press it against every greedy nerve ending and his cock gave those final begging throbs in her hand.

And it just felt too easy, so safe to fall apart when she had him like this, to let that deep quaking consume him and finally allow everything to snap in pulsing release.

“Oh, fuck yes, I’m — god yes, I’m fucking there, yes, Jessie,” he stuttered out incoherently as he was flooded with it, last overwhelming blaze igniting along his skin as he thrashed in surrender to the power of those waves of absolute ecstasy, carried by them without a care for the senseless ways his body and mouth moved as warm spurts of release fell along his torso and hips. “Yes, oh god, Jessie, fuck yes, my Jessie, so good — love it, Jessie. My sweet Jessie, make me feel so — so so good.”

His babbling cries slowly faded with his climax, and he collapsed back against the altar, laboring to catch his breath, lungs amongst the parts of him still frantically contracting and struggling to relax as he came down, hand still entwined with hers, that sweet little stroke of her thumb staying steady, brushing along skin to soothe him even as her grip slackened and her hand unwound from around his softening length to massage around the base now tingling with gentle relief.

“God, just look at you,” she rasped, as hoarse and teasingly lilting as ever as she finally lifted her head from between his legs.

He threw an arm over his eyes in sudden impulse to hide in response to the remark, certain he must in fact look as absolutely ruined as he felt. Not to mention it occurred to him for the first time that this was the most exposed she’d ever seen him, in his position sprawled out with shirt unbuttoned and pants around his ankles as warm sunlight spilled through high arched windows to fall along every inch of naked skin.

And he was already bracing himself for more bitter mocking from her, furrowed brow already slanting downward in resentment as he tried to jumpstart hazy mind to begin brainstorming a retort for whatever she was sure to attack first — a barb about the location, certainly, but she’d probably throw in something about the scars, or how pathetic he looked with his legs still spread, or —

“No fuckin’ fair for you to get to look this beautiful,” she grunted just under her breath before leaning down again, slipping a hand under his back before pressing her mouth against him to once again brush tongue along skin, kissing away the release coating his stomach.

Every planned jab melted away with the soft warmth of lips trailing along his skin, so that all he could do was arch upward to meet her.

Fuck. Beautiful. He hadn’t even realized beautiful was something he could feel, only something he could be with enough meticulous preening. But there was nothing else to describe the warm glow that swelled in his chest as she kissed up it, finally settling with her nose nuzzled at his neck.

“Jessie,” he hummed, finally pulling aside the arm cast over his eyes to rest behind him to prop himself up to rise, fluttering eyelids open to meet the tawny eyes now hovering above him.

Beautiful. Fuck, she was so beautiful too, eyes twinkling particularly golden caught with magnified sunlight and framed with lightly smudged charcoal of eyeliner smeared by sweat, cheeks rosy from the warmth of the summer day and the heat and energy generated between them, lips still so puffy from pressure and glossy with lingering saliva that he simply couldn’t resist just how kissable they were, craning his neck that last bit of distance to press them softly against his.

He settled into that comfortable relief of afterglow he so rarely actually savored as she moved her mouth against his with that same uncharacteristic sluggish tenderness, pressing more weight into his right hand to extend his arm and lean further into her as his left reached to her waistband to begin working at undoing her belt buckle.

“John,” she gasped softly into the kiss, before pulling back, straightening to sit back on her shins between his legs, scooting away until her knees were at the edge of the altar, gently shepherding him along to follow from the supportive hand still cradled at the small of his back.

“My turn,” he sighed against the lips he’d barely parted from as they readjusted themselves, still barely separating now as he murmured words against them. “Want to hear you screaming my name like that now. Want to make you feel that good.”

But her warmth was gone before he could even slide leather through metal, strap slipping through his fingers instead as she hopped down from the platform with an awkward chuckle.

“I, uh — I’m good, that’s alright,” she laughed, tugging at her belt loops to readjust her jeans before smoothing at their front. “Pretty much got what I wanted already.”

Comfortable warmth curdled and boiled over into stinging bitterness heating his insides yet again. “You don’t want me to touch you?”

He bunched fists into silk to throw his shirt back over his chest and regain some semblance of dignity, jumping down into his wrinkled pants just the same as the possibilities raced through his mind. So what then, was she now repulsed by him? Or had she just wanted to humiliate him while she maintained her own innocence? Or did she simply —?

“John, please.” His runaway train of thought was derailed by her overly casual scoff. “I told you, I am an on duty professional. I’m not gonna sully the badge by trying to get my rocks off on the clock.”

His mind realigned itself to race again to conjure the most biting response he could to that. Perhaps that she’d already sullied the entire department the moment she set sinful foot into it. Or a threat laced remark about how he could already have her stripped of the badge for abusing it to coerce him into doing something so shameful when he was just trying to innocently report a crime. Or perhaps simply pointing out she clearly cared about the sanctity of the uniform about as much as she cared about the sanctity of his church, which was…

“Plus I gotta hurry on back if I expect to get this dumbass report filed in time to still make it to happy hour at the Spread Eagle.”

Righteous fury smoldered and fell, reigniting a more petty anger.

“So you’re agreeing to file the report now?” he questioned, regaining his prior authoritativeness with a rise in measured tone and steady march forward to follow her down the aisle towards the exit.

“Well, yeah,” she replied almost boredly, turning around one last time to lean against the doorway at a slanted angle with forearm propped against the frame, flashing him an equally crooked smile. “What can I say? I found your oral arguments on the subject very convincing,” she added with an infuriatingly smug wink. “Besides, not like I had a fucking choice anyways. Yeah, you’re probably makin’ the story up, but no fucking shit a church is protected by trespass laws.”

He drew a deep breath in, puffing his chest out further as he approached to loom over her. “So you knew the entire time that —”

“Oh, what?” she huffed, lifting her chin to blow a hot puff of air against his lips with the words without adjusting her posture to even their heights, making a theatrical show of being completely unintimidated. “Is that annoying?” she asked in an overly whiny tone, with a crinkle of her nose and an overly sweet cock of her head to the side with feigned innocence. “When someone digs their heels into a stance they know is legally fuckin’ baseless just for personal gain?”

He slammed a hand against the wall and bent at the waist himself to mimic her in propping himself there casually, craning his neck down to flaunt how much larger he was than her still. “I could see how that would be frustrating. Particularly if your opponent’s only goal in putting forth a bad faith position seems to be dragging out an argument that —”

“That could have ended a long time ago,” she finished for him with a sharp, exaggerated nod, finally straightening herself to stand and taking a step back in the greeting room, flashing a final smirk before turning. “And saved everyone a lot of hassle. Speaking of which,” she added with a parting wave of her hand, strolling towards the door to the outside this time. “Unless you have anything material to add, like I fuckin’ said, I’d like to still make happy hour.”

“By all means,” he boomed with a flourish of his arm towards the exit she was already passing through. “Although I’m sure you’re already aware that also happens to be the time I like to do public outreach, and by now I’m sure you’re also certainly aware —”

“That there’s nothing I can do to stop you,” she barked without turning around, continuing towards her car. “‘Cause it’s a public place in a free country, after all. But that’s the exact same goddamn reason I’m not gonna let you run me out of there, because I have just as much right to be there as —”

“As I do,” he cut her off, now standing in the open doorway, feeling sunlight against his cheeks directly this time. “And I won’t be run off either, just so you know.”

“Alright!” she called out to him in acknowledgement with a last toss back of her head as she swung her driver’s side door open.

“Alright!” he shouted back in agreement, making sure to hurry the word out loud enough to be heard before her door finally slammed shut and she cranked the engine.

And he swore he saw her mouth the syllables of ‘alright’ one last time in the rearview mirror, and if satisfying some childish urge to have the last word in the matter, if only to herself.

So he muttered the word under his breath himself one last time before balling his hand into a fist and swinging it to turn around and stomp back into the building, down the corridor then circling around off to the side to watch her drive away through one of the main hall windows, police cruiser slowly vanishing over the horizon.

And so, after all that had happened, he ultimately ended the encounter much the same way he began it: staring out the window, stroking his beard, plotting their next interaction in his head.

[elsinore-and-inverness]

A long, spoilerific, very enthusiastic and overly honest review of Good Omens

Episodes 1-3: I want to start out by saying that as a Doctor Who fan I love love that due to special effects choices I couldn’t remotely maintain suspension of disbelief. This didn’t seem to be intentional but rather the result of it being made by (DT don’t look) people who may have seen subtlety on the doorstep but thought it might be selling something and asked it to leave.

The first two episodes seemed a bit crunched for time and over-explained. I found myself wishing they would slow down, although this “not enough time” effect may have been very deliberate and I could also see how to people who hadn’t read the book they might have felt slow-paced. But they rather extraordinarily re-created the effect of reading the book for the first time. Especially due to a remarkable slipperiness of Tennant’s acting that meant I felt like I didn’t totally have a read on what he was doing with the character until episode three. To create this effect with a character as gloriously flamboyant, multilayered and complex as Crowley, confidently cross-stepping the line between camp and quiet takes astonishing finesse and understanding and trust in long-form media. 

Nina Sosanya’s earnestness made the convent scene work and justify itself beyond exposition and weird floating metaphor visuals. The children’s authenticity and the demons’ deadly-serious goofiness provided strong through-lines and the angels reciting lines from The Sound of Music was frankly terrifying.

In the beginning of the first episode before I turned on subtitles I misheard Gabriel’s “I have reliable intelligence that things are afoot” as “I have reliable intelligence that things are fucked” and I’m honestly disappointed that wasn’t the actual line. I also misheard Crowley’s “the humans beat me to it” as “the humans made me do it” and that also would have been a much better line. 

I felt that the story picked up some in the second episode. I adore Anathema’s lack of regard for social conventions, and now I’m wondering if the fact that I get asked about ten thousand questions every time I enter the UK is less normal than I thought. The heightened tragicomedy of Newt’s computer problem in twenty-first century London was very affecting and I was less put off by the “maximalist” design elements of Tracy and Shadwell’s flats than I thought I would be from the set photos, they seemed fairly believable. Anathema’s sheer confusion at the Bentley loudly playing “Bicycle Race” was probably my favorite moment of the episode, the other contenders being the face Crowley makes when he gets rid of the paint on Aziraphale and the fact that the Bentley was STILL playing “Bicycle Race” even louder as it drove away.

I know Sheen was very proud of Aziraphale’s reaction to reading the prophecy about him, and the fact that the reaction could read from the back row of a very large theatre and I can only agree with him on this. Sheen, as usual, is amazingly chameleonic. It may just be because I’m not as familiar with his work as Tennant’s but there was no point at which I was looking at Aziraphale and thinking “oh yeah, that’s Michael Sheen.” I think he might be a few fathoms further towards the character actor end of the continuum, as my favorite Crowley moments were places I felt like a bit of Tennant was shining through- “Do ducks have ears? They must have- to hear other ducks”

Aziraphale has one brain cell and I am here for it. It’s lovely to have confirmation that this brain cell sees one Anthony “it’s just sort of a J really” Crowley as a much higher priority than mostly-incorrect books of prophecy. The first half of episode three is a gorgeous, aching love story and the scene in the car in Soho in the 60s was everything. “You go too fast for me” says Aziraphale- 5960 and/or 944 years into a relationship. 

Miscellaneous thoughts:

-Oysters are an aphrodisiac 

-Crowley has so much/so many gender

I was very busy acting in a show, doing pre-production on a different show and picketing university buildings so I took a week-long intermission 

Episodes 4-6: Crowley, an intellectual: Have you considered exoplanets?

I suppose the radiation flares on Proxima Centauri b wouldn’t affect an angel and a demon? I like that Crowley’s mindset at this point seems to be “we’ll be fine, but please don’t kill the humans” but I kind of miss seeing him panicking and reading and re-arranging his CDs. 

There’s some genuine absurdism in episode four, especially in the scene in the cinema that I think could have totally fallen apart if it was written by more that one person. 

They’re really maintaining tension very well with the Adam and humans plot and the delivery man scenes were lovely and Aziraphale’s getting to be quite tragic.  But I think the apartment-phone-call-discorporation sequence is very tightly plotted in the book and it’s kind of lost something here in coming unravelled. Episode five is fairly perfect, if toppling headlong into melodrama at times. I like how they explained Crowley not having a bigger reaction to finding Aziraphale at the airbase. The song choices are doing so much and I love Crowley to bits. The horsemen of the apocalypse are genuinely quite chilling. They create a really strong sense of impending doom. If there’s one thing I miss from cutting the other bikers of the apocalypse it’s the “Revelations: chapter six” joke.

Although it’s keeping quite close to the book, they introduce new material very excitingly in the last episode. The scenes in heaven and hell were hilarious. I really want to know how much David and Michael thought about carrying over mannerisms of each other’s characters.

Reversing the order of the final scenes reinforces that, at least structurally, the tv show is a romantic comedy. There’s been a recombination of elements that leads to a different final note than the novel leaves off on. 

Miscellaneous thoughts:

-Why on Earth does Crowley have a photo set for his own contact on his phone? Who does that?

-baby snek. baby.

-I hope they got to finish their ice cream date

[unapologeticallyaisha-archive]

Scrying

WARNINGS: creepy images, mild gore and violence

Summary: Loki investigates some magical mirrors and has a terrifying encounter.

Word count: 2500+

Author’s note: Pre-Thor and not part of my fanfiction series (for now)

The ancient art of scrying is prevalent in many cultures across the cosmos. This technique is utilized to divine the past, the present, or possible futures. Scrying tools are not limited to mirrors. Any reflective surface can be used for scrying: metal, stones, water, fire. What the scryer sees may be personal to them, or it may have nothing to do with them at all.

“Are you hoping to see your future lover?”

Loki looked up from his book. A grinning Thor was leaning over the desk, threatening to mess up Loki’s piles of carefully-taken notes.

Loki was interested in a wide variety of topics, and his curiosity was not superficial. A topic could be subjected to intensive research for weeks, even months. The latest one to catch his eye had been mirrors.

Mirrors were surrounded by numerous superstitions. They were said to show visions. Breaking them was considered bad luck. Some believed they could trap people’s souls, especially the souls of those who were dead. With magic being as diverse as it was, Loki held to the notion that not all such fears were irrational.

And mirrors held a special meaning for Loki. Because of his ability to cast illusions, he knew better than anyone how images could fool people. He startled himself when he walked in front of a mirror while disguised.

Thor had heard many of the same rumors, but he didn’t believe any of them. For him, mirrors were just tools for vanity.

Loki was planning on visiting a place called the Vale of Mirrors. Stories about it varied and many sounded exaggerated, but they all agreed that the Vale held some very mysterious mirrors, possibly the most powerful in the universe.

Loki wasn’t interested in scrying or seeing any deep truths. He just wanted to experience the mirrors for himself.

Loki gave his brother a bored look. “I would not waste my time asking such empty-headed questions.”

“You may find out that your sweetheart is a lizard,” Thor continued. “Or a troll.”

Loki’s eyes dropped to a drawing on the table, depicting a man cowering from a storm of whirling leaves. His mother had warned him about delving too deep into powerful magic, but the temptation was just too great.

“You should be careful in the Vale, brother,” said Thor, taking his hands off the table. “You might accidentally summon a Fire Demon that will gobble you up!” Chuckling to himself, he left Loki in the shadowy corner of the library.

The distant planet Loki landed on was largely uninhabited, so nature flourished freely. The planet’s three faraway suns gave off a comfortable light through the blue and gold trees. Furry animals with long snouts leapt through the branches, and worms twined around the trunks. Colorful rocks crunched beneath Loki’s boots.

Strangely, many of the trees were broken near the tops, with the severed branches lying in a heap around them.

Loki plucked some leaves off the ground. They were very soft, like velvet.

Placing the leaves in his coat, he continued on through the forest, following a faint but undeniable tug of magic.

At last, he reached the grove he had seen so many times in illustrations. The trees here looked as if they had been pruned. In the center of the grove was a perfectly circular pond with worms swimming in it.

Wondering if the pond was one of the mirrors, Loki peered into the water. However, it was so clear he could see right to the bottom.

Loki walked around the pond and found the ground sloping down into a pitch dark cave. He lit up his hand with yellow magic and went in.

The tunnel led to a circular room with nine large mirrors on the walls, each a plain sheet of glass.

Loki studied the mirrors. He could only see himself from several different angles. Nothing unusual.

Loki then noticed that everything was still. The sounds of rustling leaves and animals had stopped. There was invisible magic in the cave, but it was static, unmoving.

Maybe he had to focus. He drew closer to one of the mirrors. Still nothing changed.

Just as Loki was wondering if he needed to use a spell, the eyes in his reflection darkened, and the face became longer and narrower.

Loki stepped back and noticed that all the reflections were changing, growing broader or thinner, their hair morphing into other colors, until each one was a different person. All of them turned to face him.

“Who are you?” Loki asked.

“Why have you come here?” one of them asked back.

“I am here to see the magic of the Vale.”

“We can show you a great many things,” said another man.

Each of them was standing in another cave, also full of mirrors. It was his own world, multiplied a myriad times.

Maybe the mirrors were windows into other worlds, ones he could see but not touch.

Or maybe he was the reflection, and the others were reality.

Loki summoned up his courage. “What do you have to tell me?”

“Are you afraid of your future?” one of the reflections asked.

Fate was not something Loki considered very often, because it unsettled him. The conviction of most Asgardians was that no matter what came to pass, they would face it courageously.

Loki was not nearly that confident. Still, if that was what they offered, he would take it. “What do you know of my future?”

The magic in Loki’s hand extinguished itself, but the mirrors remained lit with their own eerie light.

“If you are not afraid …” said the reflection.

“You should be,” all of them hissed.

The cave and the mirrors disappeared. It was very dark, but Loki could see the faint outlines of trees. Leaves were falling around him – some silver, some a ghostly blue. The gleaming tips of creature’s snouts darted in and out of sight. Luminous worms as large as snakes swarm in a murky black pond in front of him. The whole place gave off the stench of wet leaves and dirty rainwater.

Loki heard a crackling noise that grew progressively louder. Ice was creeping over the forest floor and up the trees. Pinpricks of red light appeared in the rocks, like a million eyes looking up at him.

Terror gripped Loki. Every muscle in this body wanted to run. But just as that thought crossed his mind, a wind blew him onto his knees.

All at once, the trees broke at the point where their trunks forked, as if a giant scythe had cleaved off their tops.

Loki looked into the pond. The reflection looking back at him seemed melancholy.

Then his reflection’s arm grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him into the dark water.

Loki barely had time to gasp.

But he wasn’t drowning. He didn’t even feel like he was underwater. The other him had vanished, and he was floating in empty blackness.

It isn’t real, he reminded himself.

His toe hit something solid, and he fell onto hard ground.

Loki’s head was on its side, and he could see that he was on a patch of rocks that smelled vaguely metallic. Beyond the rocks was a thick black fog. It was extremely quiet.

Loki tried to push himself up, but he couldn’t move a muscle. Even his eyelids had been forced open.

Something oozed up from between the rocks, flowing over Loki’s fingers and seeping through his clothing. The scent of blood filled Loki’s nose. He tried to get up again, but to no avail. His magic wouldn’t respond, either.

The blood kept coming, and Loki wondered if it was his. He thought he could see ghoulish faces in the rocks, screaming silently. Maybe they were the ones bleeding.

Just as Loki thought he would be trapped forever, the rocks turned to dust beneath him, and the liquid vaporized.

Loki twitched his fingers and found to his relief that he could move again.

He got to his feet shakily and wiped the blood off his face. The fog was gone, and he was on a barren plain. He stood there, legs apart and eyes alert.

The wind picked up, and dust got into Loki’s eyes and clothes.

Loki then thought he saw something hovering in the distance, unmoved by the wind. A spark of flame, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Was it a friend or an enemy?

The bits of dust started to twist themselves into cable-like strands. One end was anchored to the ground, while the other end waved in the air. Instead of attacking Loki, they started converging on the tiny flame.

The flame could be his only aid in this place He started running toward it.

Immediately, some of the cables started moving towards Loki. Their ends became pointed, like spearheads.

Loki pulled a dagger out of his coat and sliced through the cable closest to him. The cable exploded, its dust spraying over Loki. However, no sooner had it burst apart then it reassembled again.

The cables slashed, making small cuts on Loki’s hands and face. One of them darted straight towards his chest, and he dodged it.

If Loki had been facing a conventional opponent, he would have known how to fight. But these were very different entities. Stooping down, he put away his dagger and unleashed a blast of magic.

The magic scattered the pieces of dust much better than his dagger could.

Loki charged towards the flame. As he cupped his hands around it, it grew slightly larger, lighting up his face with its orange glow. It was pleasantly warm.

Loki smiled a little, but he knew he had to be careful. Fire was fickle, and not easily controlled.

Similar types of magic were attracted to each other, Loki remembered. He conjured a small flame of his own and held it steady.

The cables were advancing on him.

He strengthened his magic, and the flame grew along with it. He unleashed them both as one fiery blast. The cables were disintegrated instantly.

Loki grinned proudly. He extinguished his own magic, but the small flame stayed.

The ground quaked, making Loki almost lose his balance. The plain began turning into sinking pits of dust. Soon, only the patch of ground Loki stood on remained.

Many voices whispered all around him, speaking as one. “Will you join us? Or will you be the one to escape?”

Burning white objects, like stars, began showering from the sky. Loki had nowhere to run to, so he shielded his head.

He hated this. He had fought hundreds of enemies before, but none of them could compare to the forces of nature.

The flame spread out above him, incinerating the objects as they came near. But he could feel the flame weakening.

Fight nature with nature, he thought.

Some of the objects grazed Loki’s arms, scorching him through his clothes. When they fell around Loki’s feet, Loki saw that they were leaves, sharp as glass and smoldering with white fire.  

Images danced in the flames. A blue crystal mounted in gold. An army mounted on winged horses.  A rift in the sky that was full of stars. A long sword stained with blood.

Just as suddenly as it had began, the bombardment of objects stopped.

Loki took his hands away from his head, and the orange flame shrunk again.

Rocks rushed out of the pits, and as he watched, the cave walls rebuilt themselves around him.

There was a flash of lightning and a thunderclap that made Loki cover his ears. He was almost certain the cave roof had split open.

Then it was absolutely silent.

The flame was gone. The leaves were gone. Except for the nine mirrors, the cave was empty.

After a few heartbeats, Loki hurried back through the tunnel into the open. The sunlight blinded him, and he fell to his knees.

When his eyes refocused, he realized he was kneeling by the edge of the pond, which was clear again. The sun was warm on his back. He watched the rippling water and fluid movements of the worms, and gradually his heart stopped pounding.

Loki gingerly reached up to touch his face. There was no blood, no dust. All his wounds had healed, but the sensations still remained.

He had to laugh at himself. He, the illusion-caster, frightened by false images. Nearly all sense had departed from him in the cave. He had always prided himself on being the rational one in his family, but it seemed fear always triumphed over intelligence. He knew the best thing to do was to go home, talk to other people, and remind himself that reality still existed.

He pictured Thor coming to him and asking, So, did you see your future lover? and him answering, Yes, and it turned out to be myself. Now please leave me and my books in peace.

Loki saw that more of the trees were broken than before. Perhaps he had actually left the cave during his vision.

The blissful scenery suddenly seemed to be overlaid with sinister images. Anything – from the ground to the plants to the sky itself – could turn against him at any moment.

Loki backed away from the pond. Then he reached into his coat and took out the leaves he had picked up. They were still blue and gold, and as bright as ever.

What had the Vale been trying to tell him?

Here’s a piece of music to go with this story (lyrics in description)

[aion-rsa]

Are Cyberpunk 2077’s Bugs Hiding Its Bigger Problems?

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Even with all the Cyberpunk 2077 post-release blowback (which includes reactions to the game’s bugs, the title’s nearly unplayable PS4 and Xbox One versions, and Sony’s decision to delist the game from the PlayStation Store), my mind keeps wandering to this 2019 interview with lead Cyberpunk 2077 quest designer, Pawel Sasko.

While the part of that interview where Sasko says the developers obviously aren’t overworking themselves rings loud following CD Projekt Red’s decision to implement crunch scheduling, the bit that stands out most is the implication that at that time, Cyberpunk 2077 was nearly content complete. According to Sasko, the “year of work” that was left on the game (spoilers: it was longer than that) would largely be spent “iterating [it], polishing it, playing it, making sure it looks and feels the way we want.”

There’s obviously a lot to be said about how “polished” Cyberpunk 2077 is, but the thing I can’t get over is the idea that Cyberpunk 2077‘s content was essentially complete at that time. It’s a claim that we’ve heard the company repeat in different ways throughout 2020 as they insisted that most of their work was primarily focused on optimizing the game’s performance across multiple platforms.

Cyberpunk 2077‘s bugs across those multiple platforms may rightfully be making headlines, but a larger conversation that’s starting to emerge concerns the potentially worrying implication that the bugs are hiding a game that may indeed represent its creators’ final vision.

Shortly before Cyberpunk 2077‘s release, I wrote a piece about managing your expectations for the game. While that story mentioned the almost inevitable bugs, it largely focused on this growing idea that Cyberpunk 2077 was going to be a fast-paced action game set in a thriving open-world that would rival what was seen in titles like GTA V and Red Dead Redemption 2. At that time, my feeling was that Cyberpunk 2077 would likely be much closer to a Deus Ex game with expanded RPG conventions and a slightly larger world.

Is that what we got? Kind of, but even if you view Cyberpunk through a more realistic lens, there are certain things about the game that just feel…off.

I didn’t suspect that Cyberpunk 2077 would have the most elaborate open-world, but whenever you walk around it for a while, you get the feeling that so much of it is little more than window dressing that is a generation behind in terms of basic design concepts. Citizens walk around in limited patterns, reactions are largely limited to cowering and scrambling whenever a weapon is fired within a certain range, and it’s fairly common to see character models repeated even if elements of them suggest they belong in a very specific area.

Your inability to interact with those areas is equally troubling. There are tons of arcade machines and references to other technological pleasures throughout Cyberpunk 2077, but you’re not allowed to use any of them unless they’re part of a quest. Doesn’t that feel a bit odd considering that this game was made by the same people whose previous minigame (Gwent) was so popular that it got a spinoff?

Even driving around the city feels wrong. Yes, that statement certainly touches on the game’s uneven driving controls, but you’re sometimes left with the feeling that CD Projekt Red either didn’t understand the fundamentals of video game driving or otherwise lost interest in the process somewhere along the way. When you can jump out of a car going almost 200 miles-per-hour and watch both your character and the car come to an almost dead stop, you start to suspect that whatever went wrong isn’t just related to bugs.

Let’s say you accept that Cyberpunk 2077 was going to be a more linear RPG with gameplay influenced by the Deus Ex series and that you should measure it based on those qualities. Even then, there’s that lingering feeling that something isn’t quite right here.

The most notable example in that respect has to be the lack of meaningful ways to alter your character’s appearance. We knew that the ability to customize your Cyberpunk 2077 character’s car had been removed from the game at some point, but why can’t you change their hair and other parts of their physical form? For that matter, why is the initial character creator so limited? Why can I choose the size and shape of my character’s genitals if I never see them outside of a prevalent (and hilarious) bug? Maybe that’s not as important in a first-person game, but don’t you just find that it feels like these options are simply missing?

While we’re on this subject, what’s up with Cyberpunk 2077‘s inventory system? Why am I constantly encouraged to change my character’s equipment for the statistical advantages individual pieces offer but I’m not allowed to create a pre-set look? What’s really strange is that there are certain items in the game that allow you to wear an outfit while retaining the stats offered by individual clothing pieces, but they’re incredibly rare and largely limited to specific scenarios.

That’s the point here. If Cyberpunk 2077 was an awful game across the board, then this whole thing would almost make more “sense.” Instead, the game is riddled with those bizarre design contradictions that throw the good and bad into constant chaos.

For instance, Cyberpunk 2077‘s dialog system can greatly impact the outcome of certain events, but you’d never know it based on how rarely dialog options based on your chosen lifepath appear after the prologue sequence. There are multiple rival gangs in Cyberpunk 2077 with elaborate backstories, but your ability to interact with them beyond killing them or see them interact with each other in the open-world is virtually non-existent. The game’s much-hyped braindance sequences are cool, but they’re rarely utilized during the main story and only appear in a few sidequests.

All of this leads us to a very important question. When Cyberpunk 2077 is patched like a quilt and all the bugs have been fixed, will we really be playing CD Projekt Red’s vision for this game?

My gut says the answer is “no.” Despite claims that Cyberpunk 2077 has essentially been finished from a content perspective for quite some time, there are enough examples of missing or partially implemented features in the game to lead you to believe that Cyberpunk 2077‘s turbulent development didn’t just impact the developer’s abilities to work out all the bugs; it may have impacted their ability to craft the game they set out to make.

Understand that I say this as someone who generally has a good time with Cyberpunk 2077 each time I play it. I love its customization options, its sidequests are simply incredible, and I’m even starting to warm up to the game’s action sequences and how it really does offer you options that may not be immediately apparent.

However, when all of those things I like are closely tied to some element of the game that feels half-baked or simply missing, then it’s hard not to wonder whether we’re playing a rushed version of the project or what essentially amounts to the final vision of the game that is just underperforming at the moment.

I hope it’s the former and that the Cyberpunk 2077 team takes the time to eventually add in what appear to be missing features (or even just features that they now realize would greatly enhance the game). For the first time in a long-time, I hope that Cyberpunk 2077‘s developers were stretching the truth and that Cyberpunk 2077 wasn’t so much “finished” as it was “as good as it’s going to get before the studio seemingly realized they had a massive technical problem on their hands.”

What I fear is the other scenario. There’s a world in which Cyberpunk 2077 is the game that CD Projekt Red wanted to release but with too many bugs and performance issues. If that is the case, then the debate over this game has only just begun.

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[mynewsblog21]

Netflix - The Pros and Cons of the Online Movie Rental Service

Do you have any thought what are guardians needed to experience once upon a time just to lease a film? They needed to walk five miles through eight feet of snow to the neighborhood video store in freezing, underneath zero climate. Also, when they at long last showed up there, they just had a determination of twenty or so motion pictures to look over, none of which were new discharges. After they leased a video, they needed to hustle home and rapidly watch it in such a case that it wasn't back by 5:00 the following day, they needed to pay a late expense that was twice as much as the first rental. What's more, you comprehend what, they loved it and they valued the chance to be engaged https://putlocker-online.com/golden-collection/movie2k Luckily, circumstances are different and it has become significantly simpler for individuals to appreciate the realistic expressions in the solace of their own family rooms. Specifically, the video-rental goliath Netflix, presently a commonly recognized name across America, has reformed the nature where an individual can lease a film; offering an online assistance offering boundless rentals for one level month to month rate and no late charges. With conveyance and returns gave by the US Postal Service by means of pre-stepped envelopes, Netflix has gotten a conservative, easy decision for unquenchable film watchers the country over.

Presently, as an immense film buff myself, Netflix is just about the best thing to transpire since cheddar in a can. Be that as it may, when I banter with specific loved ones who are additionally large film darlings and I disclose to them why they should join Netflix, they appear to be reluctant and pose a great deal of inquiries. Many appear as though the offer appears to great to be valid, while others don't see an issue with the conventional strategy for visiting a video store to lease a film. Whatever the explanation, I have by and by wound up having the discussion of why or why not join Netflix enough occasions to present from memory and compose an article.

So here we are, and as much as I love Netflix, I am likewise reasonable in my discussion and concede that there are a few drawbacks to the online assistance that individuals wavering on the edge of joining ought to know about. Along these lines, right away, here are my three major advantages and disadvantages of utilizing Netflix.

Star: Price - The expense of Netflix is no ifs, ands or buts the least expensive method of approaching leasing motion pictures, particularly in the event that you observe increasingly, at that point three motion pictures seven days. My first month as a part, I crunched the numbers just to promise myself that giving Netflix my Visa number was a keen choice. I separated the quantity of films I watched that first month by the level pace of $16.99 (three motion pictures one after another) and it came out to 87 pennies for every film, which in the event that you'll note, is additionally less expensive then the $1 cost of the famous and contending Redbox. Presently in the event that I watched that equivalent measure of motion pictures by leasing them from a video store at the normal cost of $4 a rental, it would have cost me around $80. I'm unfortunately that my companions is a take and by a wide margin the greatest expert of Netflix.

Master: Selection - It has transpired a great deal before and I'm certain it has transpired at some point. You find out about a low-spending autonomous celebration champ or a widely praised outside spine chiller that you totally should see. So you go to your neighborhood video store to lease it just to have the 16-year-old agent behind the counter disclose to you they have never known about it. Presently previously, your lone answer for this issue would purchase a DVD duplicate on the web. However, on the off chance that you were an individual from Netflix, you're nearly destined to have the option to lease that film. With a film library that proposals more than 100,000 unique titles, Netflix has by a long shot the greatest assortment of movies to browse. I have been a part for very nearly two years now and there have been three events where they didn't offer the film I was searching for. Furthermore, in every one of the three of those cases, the film was given as "no longer in production" by the film organization that possessed the rights, which by law implies Netflix can't offer it for lease.

Star: Convenience - "No Late Fees," Netflix realizes that this announcement is by a long shot their greatest selling point and that is clearly why it is splattered all over their ads and advertisements. In any case, that isn't intended to detract from how pleasant this advantage truly is to the client. I most likely could manage the cost of graduate school with the cash I have spent in late charges in the course of my life. What's more, as everybody knows, a video store always remembers a late charge. It will remain in their PC for quite a long time, frequenting you until you settle up. Be that as it may, the comfort of Netflix doesn't stop with the nonattendance generally charges. Driving to and from the video store is likewise dispensed with. Furthermore, their site, where the entirety of your rental determinations are made, is so unfathomably easy to use that I truly know a 5-year-old who explores it easily.

Con: New Releases - I began with the greatest expert of Netflix and here is by a wide margin the greatest con. To get another discharge when it first comes out is unbelievably troublesome. With the goal that implies, those motion pictures that you intended to go find in the auditoriums however continued postponing until you at last botched your chance and now you can hardly wait to see on DVD, Netflix will in all probability make you stand by considerably longer to watch them. It's a well known objection from clients that Netflix has found somewhat hard to address. A film's most famous rental period is in its initial 30 days being discharged on DVD, and despite the fact that Netflix has expanded gracefully of the most mainstream titles being discharged each week, it isn't monetarily brilliant for the organization to coordinate the interest because of the way that enthusiasm for the title will gradually blur. So as an individual from Netflix, there is a decent possibility that the new discharge that you have been passing on to see may get gave the feared "Exceptionally Long Wait" as it's accessibility status. What's more, trust me, the status satisfies its name.

Con: Stuck Without Movies - Depending on what bundle you pursue with Netflix (somewhere in the range of 1-8 films one after another), there will no doubt be cases where you won't have a film at home on a night while remaining in, making some margarine covered popcorn and watching a flick is all you want to do. The speed at which films are gotten and returned are as brisk and advantageous as they can be (one business day) however at times, because of terrible anticipating your part or a film not showing up when it is assume to, you'll be stuck without a film and considering simply heading to the video store and leasing one at any rate.

Con: Video Store Blues - Any devoted moviegoer or film buff will reveal to you that there is an unexplainable, practically magnificent like quality to visiting a video store. You appreciate strolling through the walkways of new discharges, comedies or blood and gore flicks and perusing the rear of the spreads and making your determination. Before joining Netflix, I frequented video stores all the time and I should state that there is a nostalgic, if not natural experience to visiting a video store that is missing with Netflix.

I for one have helped a significant number of these cons myself by assigning Netflix as my essential wellspring of leasing films however when I wind up in a circumstance as clarified above in the subsequent con or when there is another discharge I truly need to see and Netflix stepped it with a "Considerable delay," I anticipate setting off to the video store and leasing a couple of motion pictures each month. Hence, I despite everything get all the advantages of utilizing Netflix and yet, don't abandon the video store totally. Sort of like the best of the two universes.

So there you have it, the best three upsides and downsides of utilizing Netflix. Presently, I don't have a clue how often my contention has really convinced somebody to abandon video stores and get on board with the Netflix fleeting trend however I will disclose to you this, in the event that you are in any way similar to me and watching motion pictures takes up a critical piece of your past time, Netflix is by a wide margin your most ideal alternative and what you ought to use to lease motion pictures. The choice and accommodation is unparalleled a the cash you'll spare by utilizing Netflix will ideally permit you to earn back the original investment with the entirety of the late expenses you have been compelled to pay throughout the years.

[dangerous-ladies]

Do you guys ever feel the "am I getting too old for cosplay" kind of thing? Being in the mid 20's range, more and more I see people my age dropping the hobby and just going to cons in casual clothes and sometimes I feel too old for everything that happens at cons. I'm not a frequent cosplayer either and only attend 2-3 cons at most a year (AN and whatever I can plan for, Canadian here) but any tips or advice for that stage in the hobby?

The average age of the Dangerous Ladies is 29.5 so… we feel you.

Here’s the thing:

By your mid-twenties, odds are you are settling into a career or have a better idea of what you’re doing with your life. You don’t have the free time of being in school (in the sense that a lot of people in school are spending as much time doing fandom stuff as they are studying) and while you may have a lot more disposable incoming virtue working full-time, you probably also have a lot more responsibilities and bills to pay. Your career may not allow an obvious public profile, especially not with some of the more salacious costume designs.

And you’re getting older physically, too. Suddenly characters that seemed worldly and mature to you as a teenager are now years younger than you. Every other anime has a cast of fourteen year olds, and the older characters are almost all grizzled old men. (Thank fuck for Overwatch, LawBreakers and other games with older ensemble casts!) Like many others, your body is probably changing; personally, I’ve never been happier with my body, but I also find myself pickier in what I adorn it with. 

And oh my god, keeping up with the teenagers and early-twenties at this age? I can’t change costume three times in one day, or have multiple new costumes for every convention, or impulse buy pre-made costumes. (When on earth would I even wear them, I wonder?) I just got off a multi-week crunch that culminated in a 82 hour work week, I don’t have the energy for a quick change.

And OH, god, the EXPERIENCE. If you’re thinking you’re getting old, you’ve probably been around for enough years to have developed some skills. You know what you’re capable of and how far you’ve come and want to go farther –– whipping out a shoddy costume sometimes isn’t enough anymore, you want to make something to the best of your ability. You know your stuff so your standards are higher, which slows you down even MORE.

Lots of people seem to see this change in lifestyle as an incompatibility with cosplay and drop out. Others struggle with having to cosplay differently –– maybe they don’t WANT to slow down even if the rest of their life (and potentially their body) is telling them it’s time. This is an age when you generally have to shift priorities around to make it work, and if you don’t want to change, dropping out seems better at times.

I feel we already let go of the madhouse, rapid-fire costume sprees years ago, but that doesn’t mean there hasn’t been growing pains. It’s been harder to get projects done as our responsibilities stack up in our personal lives. We’ve all felt read thin in some ways over the past few years, but we adapt!

So here are some tips:

Use your years of experience to do fewer but more detailed pieces.

See conventions as a time to spend with friends, not a time to be on the floor in something incredible at all times. I love balancing casual time with big costume time because it means I can spend quality time with friends in something comfortable and easy.

Explore what cosplay actually means to you, and focus on that part.

Assess what it means that people still want to spend time together. If people are going to conventions in regular outfits without cosplay just to hang out and see each other, then it means people in this community are forming friendships as people, not just because of a shared hobby. That matters! 

Revitalize conventions for yourself by not going to crappy cons anymore. In Anime North’s case, I think lots of people drop out because Anime North is fucking stagnant. It’s easy to feel old when you’ve been going to a convention for ten years and nothing has changed and it’s not enjoyable anymore but you only go out of habit. Switch it up. Travel. Go to other conventions that do things a little differently; going to another place makes it feel fresh. 

Be friendly with the younger folk. It makes me feel like a grandma sometimes, but spending time with people who are young and enthusiastic and still going hard can be kind of refreshing. They’re filled with infectious energy. 

When you hear someone aged 20 or 21 complaining about feeling too old for cosplay, have a good belly laugh and keep on doing your thing.

Relearn tailoring for your own body. It’ll keep you on your toes and it’s good practice 👍

- Jenn

[killprettymagazine]

Never Again - An Edible Marijuana Horror Story

“Never again” is a phrase that you should utter with decreasing frequency as you mature: You should learn from your mistakes.  When you’re a kid, the world is full of sparkly phenomena, and you have not yet accrued enough disappointments to employ skepticism in investigating the seemingly endless sources of sparkle.  When you’re nine-years-old, for instance, you may not have yet learned that candied apples are detestable pieces of shit.  Imagine a giant apple that you can hold on a stick, like a king with a goddamned scepter, encapsulated by a reflective deep red coating.  Just the sound it must make when you bite into it, that crunch – you’re left with no choice but to force your parent or legal guardian to buy you one.  Then you try one.  It turns out that you can’t eat this magical apple like you would a regular apple, expecting each bite to be covered by a proportionate coating of candy, because hard candy doesn’t break like that; it shatters into many hostile shards of candy that annihilate your teeth.  It turns out, shards.  It turns out that if you wanted to, you could theoretically break the apple and use it as a fucking weapon.  And all that work and torture went into unearthing the most flavorless, soul-crushing apple variety: A Granny Smith.  Is it any wonder that so many of us develop trust issues as adults?

Sometimes, after experiencing a never again situation, you’re struck by a wave of amnesia and get pushed back into a neutral pre-trauma state.  Unfortunately, when this happens, the universe is burdened with the task of correcting you in a more memorable manner.

A few months ago, I suffered a bout of this type of amnesia during an ill-fated trip to a pot dispensary.  While there, I was brazen enough to pose the question, “Why don’t I ever get edibles when I shop here?” 

(As a side note, yes, I used the word “shop” in this context: While I am an avid believer in the medicinal benefits of pot, whose properties are vastly complex, visiting a dispensary sure doesn’t feel very medically official. You’d be hard-pressed to find a medication called “Alaskan Thunderfuck” at a conventional pharmacy). 

After interacting with the budtender at the dispensary - whose white lab coat, long Zen master’s beard and cosmic presence made me feel like I was talking to God - I got home and prepared for an epic night.  I purchased a ribeye that was so beautiful that I felt like I should apologize to it for the mess in my kitchen.  I was going to cook it sous vide at 130 degrees and then sear it to perfection in clarified butter.  Coltrane’s Giant Steps.  16-year-old single malt Macallan.  Porn, probably.  I ate half of one of the grown-up lozenges that I procured and risky-business’ed my way into the shower.

As I dried off with a towel, I felt the first signs of tingling in my toes; a very welcome sensation. About 20 minutes later, as I was tinkering with the immersion circulator, I still only felt the tingling.  “Shouldn’t I be giggling by now?” I wondered, “I’m preparing a bath for a steak while wearing a robe and I have a mustache.  I look like I’m about to fuck this steak.”  But my high seemed to be reaching stasis and I was not about to settle for the smooth jazz of evenings after dropping $25 on a single piece of meat.  I popped the other half of the lozenge in my mouth and proceeded with my grooming routine as the steak-bath reached temperature.

By the time the immersion circulator reached 130 degrees, a smile appeared on my face.  “That’s more like it,” I thought, “now I can honor the bull that was sacrificed for this evening appropriately.”  I would have never guessed that the next five hours of my life would consist of scrotum-gripping dread.

The first signs of trouble appeared as I removed the steak from the butcher paper in preparation for its bath.  I unwrapped the packet and stared in horror at the practically pulsating piece of flesh that I was about to consume.  I must have stared at the thing for the better part of five minutes.  “Oh, Christ,” I thought, “Not again.  I’ve already been through this – I’m not going to become a vegetarian.”  But I could not tolerate the idea of eating this steak so I wrapped it back up and returned it to the fridge, where I hoped it would be safe from whatever awful force was possessing me.  I opted for a couple of potatoes that I “baked” in the microwave.

As the potatoes cooked, which could have occupied anywhere from a few minutes to several weeks, I noticed that I could feel my heart beating in my chest without touching it.  “Does it always do that?” I wondered.  Suddenly concerned, I elected to take my own pulse; I placed my index and middle fingers on my wrist and started counting.  I kept losing my place and had to start over, again and again, which it turned out did not help my anxiety.  But I’m not a quitter; I would take my own pulse come hell or high water.  As I counted, it occurred to me that I had no clue about what constituted a normal or an abnormal pulse.  “Who do I think I am,” I thought, “a fucking doctor?”  But I continued to count for some reason.  My efforts were then interrupted by a heinously loud siren, which catapulted me out of my kitchen chair.  “JESUS CHRIST!” I exclaimed.  I no longer had to check my pulse; I knew that it was off the charts at this point.  I was on the verge of weeping from fear – then I realized that my potatoes were done.

I opened the microwave door to retrieve my potatoes, which now resembled the wrinkly testicles of a 90-year-old, and realized that I did not have enough saliva in my mouth to move my tongue, let alone to eat potatoes – the driest of root vegetables.  I shut the door, imprisoning the potatoes in the microwave.  It was time to lie down.  

“This lozenge is very, very mellow,” the budtender at the dispensary said.  “You’ll hardly notice that you’re high,” he said.  “One might not even be enough for you,” he said.  As the second half of the lozenge high-fived the first that was already reclining in a La-Z-Boy somewhere in my amygdala, I fantasized about finding that budtender, yanking him by his wizard’s beard and screaming, “IS THIS WHAT YOU MEANT BY ‘VERY, VERY MELLOW,’ YOU FECKLESS TURD?”  I wanted to strap him into a “good vibe” equivalent of an electric chair and pump him with the strongest possible current of good vibes until he exploded into a supernova of ineffectuality.  Because I wasn’t mellow, I was going to die.  I’m not using the phrase “going to die” to indicate that I was in any actual danger, nor in a histrionic Morrissey sense (…and you go home and you cry and you want to die).  No, as far as I knew, I was dying. 

I’ve danced around the rainbow of anxiety experiences in my life, including several shades located in the “bad pot trip” wavelength.  Most pot anxiety I’ve experienced, while often terrible, is usually short-lived: You smoke, the effects come on and intensify rapidly, you panic, you take a benzodiazepine (at least if you’re me) and 15 minutes later you’re back to watching cat videos on YouTube and eating pretzels.  Easy as pie.  This, on the other hand, was like some archaic form of corporal punishment – like being chained to a giant rock and then pushed off a cliff into the sea.

I was now curled up in the fetal position on my bed, my whole body trembling violently; I was a six-foot vibrator.  “W-w-when will it stop?” I might have said out loud.  The Ativan wasn’t working.  It occurred to me that I had no idea how much time had elapsed since I had placed the tiny pill under my tongue so I grabbed a small alarm clock that was on my nightstand and placed it right in front of my face on the opposite pillow.  It looked like the clock and I had just finished making love.  Then I realized that tracking time might not be such a great idea so I buried the clock under the covers and proceeded with my trembling regimen.   

At this point, my anxiety was so severe that my perception of reality started to waver; I felt like I was in a movie or a dream.  I was so scared that nothing around me seemed real and, every time I thought my fear could not become any more severe, I was proven wrong.  “Aren’t I supposed to be enlightened by now?” I wondered.  I was hitherto under the impression that if I would experience a state of fear that was adequately extreme, I would ultimately be led into a state of oceanic tranquility and be one with the cosmos.  “That Alan Watts didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about!” I thought. 

It was now 1:23 AM according to the clock that I hid under the covers.  My anxiety was not letting up and I was hallucinating.  I needed to talk to someone, preferably a human.  I needed to hear something other than my auditory hallucinations or the sound of my absurdly dry “NPR” mouth, the latter of which was really starting to grate on my nerves.  I didn’t want to call any relatives because I was worried about being chided for my weed blunder.  I called one of my friends but he was busy.  Then I suddenly remembered a recent conversation with another friend who, upon learning that I was going through a bad breakup, made the mistake of telling me that I could call him whenever I wanted if I needed to talk. 

“Did I wake you?” I asked.  “Umm, no,” he groaned in response.  “Yes, I did.”  Silence.  “I’m having the worst anxiety attack I’ve ever had.  I’m gonna die.”  “You’re not going to die.  Just breathe.”  The conversation consisted mainly of me proclaiming that I was going to die and my friend telling me that I was not dying.  He eventually tried to distract me by transitioning to other subjects but I could not focus on what he was saying.  At one point, it occurred to me that he was talking about Jeff Goldblum for a reason that was beyond my comprehension to such an extent that I considered taking another Ativan.  If I was going to die, I really hoped that my last conversation would not be about Jeff Goldblum.

After about 40 minutes on the phone, multiple references to Jeff Goldblum and several hundred “I’m gonna die’s,” I felt an internal release.  Finally, after about five hours of swimming through the rectum of the psychedelic spectrum, I was free.  I suddenly realized that my friend was still talking.  Eventually, noting my silence he asked, “You doing better?”  “I think so,” I said, “I’m starving now.”  I remembered that I still had those delicious wrinkled potatoes.  While cradling the phone on my shoulder, I walked over to the kitchen and opened the microwave door.  The potatoes looked like Guantanamo Bay detainees.  I suddenly remembered Obama’s quote, “…under my administration the United States does not torture” and started laughing maniacally.  I couldn’t breathe.  I tried to share this thought with my friend.  “I’m going to sleep,” he responded.  I continued laughing when I got off the phone.  I ate the potatoes and went to sleep, occasionally bursting into laughter in the dark. 

The next day I woke up and treated myself to a ribeye breakfast.  As I chewed the steak, I reflected on the events of the previous evening and wondered, “Was that a valuable experience?”  I concluded that it might have been but only in the crudest sense.  It would be like saying that the experience of intentionally hitting yourself in the balls was a valuable experience because it taught you not to do that.  Would you really have to be doubled in pain to figure that one out?  Still, I can say with gusto that I would sooner wipe my ass with a cactus than ever ingest another edible.  Never, ever again.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

The Seal Lullaby: Chapter 3

Next chapter! Long one this time.

Thanks to @minky-for-short @childofdustandashes @purearcticfire

Also a huge thanks to @brainypaperbullets who did some utterly fantastic fan art for chapter one that just completely blew my mind, excellent stuff.

For years, people in the village had tutted and shook their heads over the folly down by the beach, one of the slowly disintegrating and weathered cottages that were always found in little towns like this. In such a tight knit and curious community, often forced into close quarters in the bar or the diner or the café by the habitually bad tempered weather, such things were well thumbed conversation topics. They called it a waste, an eyesore, a pile of rubble that should have been swept off their coastline a long time ago or at the very least turned into something useful.

But of course, if it had, what would they talk about?

So, it was an expected but still odd twist of irony that when the young couple of strangers turned up and actually started rattling around in the old house, it caused more suspicion and exasperation than relief. Though the potential for grumbling conversation in the church hall was frankly delicious. Though now they muttered sullenly, chewing over who these two could possibly be, they looked like they were barely out of school, nothing more than kids really. And how on earth did they get the money to fix up that old place, the work it must be taking to make it habitable didn’t bear thinking about. The noise alone of them sawing and hammering and scraping was ghastly, must be scaring all the wild birds away. And lord above only knew what they were doing sleeping in the back of the banged up old car they’d arrived in, apparently until the cottage was complete; that was much too close of quarters for some of the older residents’ liking.

The whole situation just reeked of something suspicious and would clearly come to nothing good and someone should probably do something.

But then the two of them started coming into the village, ransacking the thrift store for furniture, obviously, nothing short of delighted with their haul of chairs, a table, a sofa, a bed and more bookshelves than could ever possibly be needed, none of it matching in size, shape or colour. They also bought food, kitchenware, some clothes more suited to the weather than the ones they’d arrived in, candles and matches because apparently, the power wasn’t working just yet. The second-hand bookstore they hit with the most savagery, buying just short of more books than could be carried. The need for the many bookshelves became quickly obvious. The couple blew through the town, building themselves a ramshackle, patchwork life of random antiques, oddities and well-loved cast offs that ended up having an undeniable charm and warmth to it, all in the space of a Saturday afternoon.

The shopkeepers who witnessed their scavenger hunt all congregated in the same corner of the bar that night and all reported the same thing to a rapt audience. Despite the general air of downright peculiarity that surrounded them, the two seemed like a genuinely sweet pair of young folk, a lovely couple.

They all described the girl as very pretty, with a sweet soft face, an easy smile and a general friendliness that led to everyone who encountered her finding themselves in a companionable chat within two moments. She asked questions and listened well, her musical laughter often making an appearance. They all told of how she consulted lists and checked things off, cooed appreciatively over homemade preserves and cakes and wall hangings, brought a light and brevity with her everywhere she went. And she’d paid for everything without a moment’s hesitation.

Eliza was how she’d introduced herself. Eliza Schuyler.

The lad who accompanied her they all agreed was …an odd one. Sweet. Funny. Animated. But most definitely strange. They passed around stories of how he became fascinated with an antique globe at the thrift store, spinning it around with seemingly infinite devotion, eyes bright as he took in the carefully painted surface. He’d nearly cried with joy when Eliza had asked if he wanted to buy it. The proprietor of the store also suspected that he was the reason the two had left with a stuffed weasel, a rocking horse and a large glass ornament as well as the essentials. The grocer was slightly concerned, claiming that she’d witnessed him put a whole floret of broccoli in his mouth, nearly keeling over and spitting it out immediately as Eliza apologised profusely. By that point, Eliza and the grocer were sharing cups of tea as she taste tested her homemade marmalades so all was forgiven quickly. His most glowing commendation came from the old bookshop owner who’d fallen in love with the pair of them over the three hours they’d spent in his store. For all his eccentricities, the boy had known Shakespeare’s sonnets like the back of his hand and had been eager to discuss them and their potential interpretations at great length. And still, he’d had a smile and an enthusiastic handshake for everyone he met, his rapid and clever talk charming almost everyone.

He’d given his name as Alexander. No last name.

What was also agreed upon was how good they seemed to go together. Their youth was troubling but they had the rapport of people who’d been married for decades, finishing each other’s thoughts and actions, moving in some kind of unspoken synchrony, keeping perfect beat with each other like it was as natural for them as breathing. They were a little shameless, kissing lightly and taking hold of each other’s hands, wrapping arms around waists and lips brushing necks, exchanging loving gestures easily and simply, just because they could. While a little disarming, it was lovely to watch.

So maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, then, them setting up in the folly, turning it into a home for themselves. They certainly seemed nice enough. There were still a lot of unanswered questions though such as where they’d come from, where their money had come from, what they were planning on doing now they had their unusual little curiosity shop of a home.

But hey. At least they would give the villagers something to talk about.

“Alex, is this straight? I can’t tell from here” Eliza had to raise her voice to call to him from the kitchen, pinned as she was to the wall, trying to wrestle one of the large posters they’d fallen in love with at the antiques store into submission. Given that it was a pretty damn sizeable copy of Nighthawks, it was proving to be easier said than done.

She heard the quiet pad of his footsteps behind her. He always moved so quietly and quickly, it had taken her quite a while to get used to it, to stop nearly hitting the ceiling in shock as she found him suddenly right at her shoulder when he’d previously been across the room. But she was getting better, settling in to sharing a life with him, adapting to his quirks and habits. Granted, given that he wasn’t exactly human, she was dealing with a little more than most would.

“Right side needs to go up a little,” Alex informed her, sounding like he had something in his mouth. Which wasn’t a surprise, his metabolism seemed to run a lot faster than hers, “No, wait, that’s too much…”

Eliza followed his careful instructions until she heard him chirp, “Okay! Perfect!”

With a sigh of contentment at a job well done, she hopped down off the sideboard and was planning on pulling him into a hug. Instead, she found herself stopping dead and giving a small yelp of laughter.

“Alex! Baby, what did I tell you about clothes?”

Alex looked unbothered, crunching on one of the chocolate chip cookies Eliza had made and regarding his decidedly naked body, “What about ‘em?”

“That generally? People wear them. At most times of day, a solid ninety nine percent, I’d say,” Eliza snorted with laughter.

“But I don’t see the point,” Alex slipped into his commonly used, playfully argumentative tone, “It’s just strange, I’m not cold so why would I cover up?”

She rolled her eyes in exasperation, coming and resting her hands on his chest, “There’s other reasons to wear them. Call it societal convention.”

“Not where I come from,” Alex correctly pointed out, gesturing at her with his half-eaten cookie, “And I get your point about when we’re in town and stuff, I’ll accept that, even if I don’t really get it. But it’s just you and me here! This is our territory! So, what’s the issue?”

Eliza opened and closed her mouth, annoyed at how he was such a good debater after only a few weeks spent being human, thrown off by the adorable little slips of the tongue he still made, “I’m just saying. It’s irregular.”

Alex’s face cracked into a lopsided grin, “I am irregular!”

“Can’t argue with that,” Eliza said fondly, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “Now come on, naked or not, you’re helping me unpack.”

They were getting along quite well under Eliza’s natural organisation. The sea of cardboard boxes had gradually dwindled to a lake, then a river until now there were just puddles that needed mopping up. It was doing wonders for her soul, building their home out of abandoned items and pre-loved junk and recycled odds and ends. She’d been happier in the last few days, sanding down the edges of the bureau and gluing the teapot back together and putting the doors back on the wardrobe and making scavenged doorknobs make peace with the wrong doors, covering every available surface in fun, bright, hand painted patterns and doodles. She hammered and sawed and replaced and matched, Alex proving himself very useful, quickly picking up the idea of aesthetics and artistry despite the fact that there was never much call for it under the waves. Eliza had always loved creating and making things, giving things new purpose and helping them fit together in new ways and now she found herself undergoing a similar transformation. As she patched up the holes in the sheets and brought the scraps of a few different materials together into a functioning set of curtains, she would run her thumb across the slightly wonky lines of stitching and feel similar marks on some deep part of herself, the signs of something broken and tattered being made whole again. Except some of the patching, most of it in fact, wasn’t her own handiwork. It was Alex’s.

Everything in the little cottage was mismatched, nothing was designed to go together, by all laws of fashion and design it was a travesty. But somehow it worked. All the scraps and patches came together in just the right way.

Eliza rested her head against Alex’s chest. She did that a lot, the sound of his heartbeat, just faster than a normal pace by enough of a margin to feel off and unusual, it soothed her. Grounded her. When the sun came down and those creeping doubts made themselves known, living in between her ribs and coming skulking out and weeping plaintively that she’d made a mistake, what had she done, running off with a psychopath who claimed to be from another world? They reminded her of how her mother had cried, the tense set of her father’s jaw as Eliza had explained that she was moving, she was leaving. Dropping out, packing up her stuff and leaving, just like that. There had been raging and yelling and pleas to her sanity that must have rocked the beach house. Alex certainly heard it from halfway down the beach, she’d been able to tell that much in the anxious tear tracks he had tried to wipe away before she saw. But through it all, Eliza had just taken deep breaths and told them the truth; she wasn’t trying to hurt them, she didn’t hate them, it wasn’t their fault. And it wasn’t. They loved her sincerely. They’d tried to give her the best life possible. It was just that their definition of what the best life was varied just a little bit too much from Eliza’s. She’d tried to explain all this as she’d outlined her plans to go back to Albany, pack up as much of her stuff as would fit into her car and just go. She promised to call and write often, she promised she was being safe and she’d find a job, she’d be okay. But whether they’d understood or even heard her over all the yelling, she didn’t know. She hoped it would eventually sink in for them, after the initial shock died down.

In all of it, Alex didn’t come up somehow.

The sour little voices whispered all this to her, forced that scene to play out in front of her eyes over and over. And when it was dark outside and cold and misty and the wind seemed to take offence at their depriving it of the chance to blow the folly right off the hills, retaliating by rattling the weakened windows and making the shutters bang and crash, it was hard to fight those thoughts off.

But then there was always Alex. There was always his unusual heartbeat thumping soothingly against her ear. There were always his wiry arms wrapping around her. There were always the escaped wisps of his long hair tickling the bridge of her nose. And in those moments, Eliza would be sure she had made the right decision.

Tonight, was no different. Eliza was wrapped up in one of the baggy University of Chicago sweatshirts she’d stolen off her sister and nothing else. Alex had been persuaded into shorts and a t shirt, mostly by Eliza commenting how cute he looked in them. The fire was going, chattering away by itself in the hearth, their cups of tea were cooling on the floor by the couch. Eliza was simply daydreaming, using Alex as a cushion while he devoured one of their latest purchases from the bookstore. The scene was so perfect, so picturesque, that Eliza was very annoyed when her phone went off, shattering the quiet expertly. That is, until she picked it up and saw that it was her sister Angelica.

She’d been fielding a lot of calls from her sisters recently as they mediated the fallout between her and her parents. She felt sorry for them, having to take on such a hard and thankless task but it had to be done. That was family. Eliza had done her fair share when a certain eldest Schuyler had eloped with her graduate student boyfriend of two months. Even that storm had eventually calmed, which gave her hope for her own.

Though, in fairness, John Church had been a twenty-nine-year-old English aristocrat wastrel with a sizeable estate and trust fund and an affable charm, generous spirit and deep love for Angelica, once you sat down and talked with the guy. Which was a far cry from a shapeshifting Selkie.

Eliza rolled her eyes at herself as she answered the phone, “Hey, Ange.”

“Eliza,” Angelica was still feigning anger at her sister, even when they both knew it was nothing more than bewilderment and exasperation, “Still hanging out in the ass crack of nowhere?”

“It’s pronounced Oregon, actually?” Eliza hummed, smiling wanly, “But yes. Still.”

“No chance you’re going to come to your senses?” she just about heard her older sister’s shoulders slump, “It’s such a shit show over here. I’d say you’re teetering on the edge of still forgivable.”

Eliza winced a little, “They will get over it. They will.”

Alex’s eyes flickered over to her face, she felt him tense underneath her.

Angelica clicked her teeth, a sure sign that she was getting frazzled, “Eliza, you were always the good one. You’ve really thrown them for a loop here, you were their golden girl.”

That made Eliza frown, “I wasn’t. I was just the quiet one that didn’t argue back. Except now I am. Ange, you always knew I wasn’t cut out for all that.”

“Is that all it is?” Angelica’s voice grew a little strained, “Are you sure you’re not in trouble? Hon, you know there’s nothing we can’t fix. If you don’t want mama and papa involved, I get that but I’m always here.”

Eliza realised what she was doing to her older sister. Angelica had always taken such pride in knowing that her siblings came to her with every problem, relied on her like a fairy godmother to soothe any ache with coffee, hugs and witty advice that held both smiles and wisdom. She’d seen them through botched exams, doomed crushes, Peggy’s hair dye disasters and Eliza’s grief for her pets.

And now Eliza had jumped ship without telling her biggest supporter. Angelica wasn’t just scared for her sister or angry at her for causing a family turmoil. She was hurt.

Eliza softened her voice considerably, “I know that, sis, I really do. And I’m really sorry but I’m still figuring out how to explain this. As soon as I know, you’ll be the first person I tell.”

“That isn’t reassuring me, Eliza!” Angelica’s pitch was skyrocketing and Eliza knew for certain that, if there was a hard surface in her sister’s vicinity, she’d be rapping her nails on it.

“I know,” Eliza felt Alex’s hand come up to stroke her hair, sensing that the conversation wasn’t going very well. It helped considerably, “Um, look…it’s a little like your situation, okay? There’s a…a guy.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause from the other end of the line, Eliza would have feared the connection dropped if the tension wasn’t so palpable.

“Eliza…” Angelica’s tone was warning.

“It’s nothing dangerous!” she hurried to pull her sister’s thoughts back from terrible places, “He’s called Alexander, okay? He’s sweet and kind and gentle and I love him. It’s just that mama and papa wouldn’t get it.”

Alex pricked up at the sound of his name, his hand stalling on her hair.

There was another pause but this one was more relaxed, Angelica just absorbing and processing this information, “Alexander…there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Eliza cursed her apparently omniscient sister, “Yeah. But…it’s not the kind of thing I can explain over the phone. You can come down and see if you want, you and Peggy. Maybe…maybe not mama just yet.”

Alex’s hand was shaking, she could feel it.

“Believe me I will,” Angelica muttered, “And if I can even the slightest hint that you’re in any danger…”

“I know, I know,” Eliza cut her off tiredly, “You won’t. If you see, you will understand. I promise.”

Promises between Schuyler sisters were something almost tangible, something serious. They were never, ever made lightly.

“Surely you can understand, even a little?” Eliza lowered her voice, pleading a little.

“I…suppose so,” Angelica relented, if a little sourly, “But I’m going to have questions.”

“Naturally,” Eliza sighed, “Listen, you know exactly where I am, I’m not hiding. I’ve even got a job, I was talking to the nice lady who runs the tea shop, her brother is the principal of the local school? Their third-grade teacher is about to retire and they can’t get a replacement, I’m meeting with him tomorrow morning…”

Angelica couldn’t keep the wry smile out of her voice, “Who said you couldn’t network, eh?”

“I learned from the best,” Eliza was relieved by the little joke, she really was forgiven then.

“Well, I’m appeased but not satisfied. I’ll be down there soon, okay?”

“I hope so,” Eliza smiled, meaning it, “Love you, Ange.”

“Love you too, Liza. Stay safe.”

She gave a genuine sigh of relief as she put the phone down, getting to return to her peaceful little corner of the world. Angelica would forgive her. Peggy already admired her sheer balls more than she was bothered by her decision. So, there were no troubles there, she knew her sisters.

Her parents would be a different story, that outcome was still uncertain. But Eliza had known there was going to be some price to pay, the happiness she’d managed to find would have felt insincere if there hadn’t been some cost.

Still, she didn’t have to like it.

She realised then that Alex was still tense. As she craned her neck to look at his face, she felt her heart twist. He wasn’t good at hiding his emotions, not in any sense, so his fear and anxiety were sharply clear on his expression. He needed help, she knew that in an instant.

Eliza twisted out of his grasp so she could be the one holding him instead, “Baby? Alex, it’s okay, it went well.”

“She’s coming here,” Alex murmured faintly, not meeting her eyes, “Your sister.”

Eliza closed her eyes briefly. Maybe that had been stupid of her to say but there’d been no other way to shrug off Angelica. She certainly should have discussed it with him first.

“I…not any time soon, she’s busy but…yes. Eventually,” she relaxed her hold on him, anticipating him pulling away.

He didn’t but his voice grew more strained and he drew closer to one of the dark, mournful moods he was accustomed to. If Selkies had any concept of anxiety attacks, he’d have a word for it, maybe he wouldn’t be so scared of his own emotions. Eliza had been trying hard recently to help him with that.

“She’ll see what I am. She’ll know, she’ll hate it, she’ll take you away from me…”

Eliza’s heart dropped fully and she pulled away so she could look into his eyes, through the tears there.

“No, Alex, I promise. Not my sister, she’ll listen to me,” Eliza tried to soothe him, to let her certainty ground him.

Alex just whimpered, looking unconvinced, his pupils darting around, scared and agitated.

“Alexander!” Eliza pulled his focus back to her with a firm half cry to silence his panic. Once his chest stopped heaving and his shoulders relaxed a little, she stroked her thumbs across his cheeks and murmured in a much gentler tone, “You can trust me, Angelica and Peggy won’t hurt you, they won’t interfere. They…well, they’ll probably guess that something is up but once they see we’re happy together, that will be enough for them.”

“It will?” Alex’s voice was small, his eyes begging her for reassurance.

Eliza nodded, smiling gently, “It’ll all work out, Alex, I know it will. Trust me.”

He swallowed hard and nodded slightly, leaning into her touch, “I do.”

That was enough to give her no choice but to kiss him, the simple and beautiful thing that was having the trust of the person you loved. Alex kissed her back with equal enthusiasm. After a few beats, his hands rested lightly on her hips, hers slid upwards into his hair. She moved forward so her chest pressed against him, her hips met his in a simple, wordless question. He answered by gently tumbling them down, onto his back with her entangled against him.

Their first time hadn’t been in the most romantic of settings, the back seat of Eliza’s car the first night they’d rolled into town. It had been a lot of fumbling and wandering, giggling as their lips met and bumping into each other, clothes thoughtlessly pulled away. But the moonlight had shone on Alex’s back, the window was cold as Eliza’s feet had planted against it, their breaths had misted and melded into one in the air. And it had been perfect.

But now they had space and warmth and time, seemingly endless stretches of it. And Alex and Eliza made full use of it, learning so much about each other’s wants and needs in such a short space of time, falling into it every night; Alex’s appetite seemed to stretch to other areas too and Eliza felt like someone who’d never tasted pomegranates in their life but had woken up in an endless grove of the richest and juiciest. Their bodies just seemed to fit together as naturally as the rest of their lives did in such a beautiful way that they both often found themselves with tears in their eyes when it was over and done.

But there would always be another time.

Right now, Alex was inviting Eliza to take the lead. It had been him the first few times; though he shyly confided that he’d never known anyone else in that way before her, it was more openly discussed and celebrated among Selkies than it was with humans who’d picked up the concept of shame somewhere down the line. . And god, the things he could do to her. She was more than happy to surrender to him. But now Eliza was familiar and hungry and wanted to take the reins sometimes, which Alex was utterly delighted by.

She kept her lips pressed to his, delighting in the coolness of his skin, as her hands roved his body, following the curve of his narrow hips. He had such an endearing awkwardness to his shape, probably the result of having one foot in two very different species. Eliza took great joy and pride in thinking there was nothing in the world quite like her Alex.

She pushed his shorts down his legs, finding him half hard and ready, beautifully responsive as always. She grinned and swept her jersey over her head in one fluid motion, going from clothed to not in an instant. Alex’s jaw still slackened a little and those gorgeous eyes of his always got a little wider at the sight of her body, even now when he was as familiar with it as his own. She was just too beautiful, the way he felt when he looked at her and knew she was his, she wanted him, he’d only ever come close to feeling that on those rare occasions where he’d been swimming, catching the current just right, soaring, turning on his back and looking up at the night sky through the surface of the water and felt perfect freedom.

Eliza decided she wanted to have all of him too, just as he had all of her. He helped her pull off his shirt and send his shorts tumbling to the floor. Every motion that brought them closer resulted in Alex’s lips pressing against her skin, any part he could reach, with a kind of reverence but there was force behind it. Eliza’s collarbone was peppered with faint but discernible marks by the time Alex was naked.

She returned the favour, kissing him deeply as she lined up their bodies and guided him inside her so her high, wild gasp as his full length breached her was muffled against his mouth. The chill of Alex’s skin extended to parts other than his hands, their bodies joined with a clash of temperatures that drew low groans from both of them and spurred them both on to keep going. Alex’s movements were powerful and graceful not unlike someone who was underwater, perfectly fluid and well timed to some swell and pull only audible in his own head. Eliza was helpless in moments, riding him with less finesse but every bit as much drive, working to undo him and succeeding. They strung each other along and pulled back and raced forward in a jarring, powerful rhythm, drawing it out until it was almost painful. Alex unwound first, gripping her hips so hard there would be marks for her to marvel over before they went to bed, his heat flooding into her and tipping her over the edge in turn. She screamed his name, he was too seized to do anything but roar, but the result was the same.

They came down from their peak slowly, collapsing and gasping against each other, eventually laughing once they found the breath to.

“I love you,” Alex mumbled in between their lazy, blissful kisses.

Eliza purred happily, winding her arms around his neck, “I love you too, baby.”

The fire was still going strong, it would burn into the night if they let it. So Eliza made a decision; she couldn’t bear to let Alex go for a moment so they were going to sleep here tonight. Alex chuckled as she pulled the surprisingly soft tartan throw rug they’d picked up over them, catching on to what she was doing, thinking it a fantastic idea.

They fell asleep easily after a mumbled exchange of more ‘I love you’s and ‘goodnight’s, the embers imprinting their tangled shadows against the low stone walls of their home.

  Summer was fast slipping through their fingers and Alex was determined not to let it go completely without one last night on the beach.

Eliza wasn’t about to argue with him. Her new job started in two days and she wanted to spend an evening forgetting how nervous she was, she wanted the opportunity to think about nothing else but the steady rhythm of the waves and how soft the sand was underneath her.

So, Eliza made some pasta, something with a lot of vegetables in it, continuing her crusade to wean Alex off his initial diet of Oreos and cheese puffs with the occasional bowl of chicken soup. He wasn’t complaining too much, he kept telling her that whatever she made for him it would be miles better than years and years of nothing but cold, raw fish. Eliza supposed he wouldn’t be in the mood for sushi any time soon. They took their bowls out on the sand, curling up together on one of the many blankets they owned and enjoying just sitting side by side and watching the sun sink below the horizon line. After a while, Alex pulled her head into his lap so he could wind his fingers through her hair in a loving gesture that brought comfort to them both.

But, from this vantage point, Eliza could read his expression clear as day. And it unnerved some deep part of her. His eyes were fixed on the rocking, timeless rhythm of the waves with a kind of wistfulness and fascination that made her want to hold onto his hands fiercely and cling to him, just in case he started to slip away. Why she should feel like she was in danger of losing him, here in such a perfect moment of closeness, she had no idea. But still, she felt it.

“Alex?” she said quietly, hardly loud enough to be heard over the waves breaking on the shore but still, he turned to her.

“Bestey,” he replied warmly, fondly. He’d been playing around with different nicknames for her over the past few weeks, trying and testing different terms of endearment and affection to see what felt right. Some, she imagined, were rooted in his heritage; she’d never heard any human call another ‘my anchor’ or ‘my firm tide’ or ‘my current that carries me home’. She liked the sweet, playful shortening of her name that he seemed to have settled on, liked the way it sounded soft and buoyant in his voice.

“Everything okay? You look…” she struggled for the right word, eventually settling on, “Distant.”

For a moment, he looked like someone who’d been caught out. There was a flash of guilt in the depths of his eyes but it was gone before she could really pin it down, “I was just daydreaming.”

Eliza let the worry drop from her hands, he didn’t have the look in his eyes anymore and the anxiety it had given her was fading. She didn’t much fancy chasing after it, not when they were having such a lovely time.

Alex piped up, “You know how you were telling me why the café lady and the library lady wear those rings on their hands?”

“Because they’re married to each other,” Eliza nodded, Alex asked roughly a million questions a day about human life but that wasn’t one she’d been expecting to resurface.

“Yeah,” Alex nods, “I remember. And you said people got married because they loved each other and that was a way of telling everyone about it.”

“Sure,” Eliza smiled. He never forgot anything she told him, his mind was like a lake that didn’t seem to have a bottom, always more space for new facts and titbits of knowledge which he collected with the fervour that magpies collected shiny objects.

“Well, could we do that? Could we wear rings and be married and I’d be Mrs Schuyler?” he asked, a little hopefully.

“Mrs is for women,” Eliza chuckles gently, “You’d be a Mr.”

“Oh, right. Mr Schuyler,” he corrected himself, nodding, “But could we? Because it’s like mating, right, and we’ve done that? This seems like the human version. So we should, right?”

Eliza couldn’t help the laughter bubbling up in her chest, “Why, Alexander, are you proposing to me?”

“I think so?” he giggled too, always finding her laughter infectious.

Young girls were supposed to wistfully wonder about the day they were proposed to, Eliza thought, but she didn’t suppose any of them would expect something like this. Or be so delighted with it.

She sat up so she could cradle Alex’s face in her hands as she gave him the deepest and most passionate kiss she could manage. He responded in kind almost immediately, tasting lemonade on her tongue, the kind of sugary, uncomplicatedly delicious flavour he’d only ever found on dry land. It tasted like the idea that something could exist for the sake of its own beauty and pleasure, that there could be happiness and contentment without cost. It was a lot to take away from just the scent of lemons and sugar in a kiss but Alex nothing if not complicated.

“Although…” Eliza murmured, little creases taking shape as she thought intently.

“What?” Alex lifted an eyebrow, faltering slightly. He’d taken the kiss as a pretty firm yes?

“No, no,” Eliza scrambled to soothe his worry as fast as possible, “Of course I want to, I absolutely want to. It’s just that getting married needs…um, papers? And ID and stuff and records and birth certificates. You…you don’t have any of that?”

Alex’s face fell a mile, “Oh…”

This was starting to feel like yet another thing from her world Eliza would never have, all because of him. Like her parents and her old home and her old friends, a relationship she could show off proudly to other people rather than having to dodge and improvise, yet another thing she was going to have to sacrifice because of him. He loved her so very much, he just wanted to show that in every way he could, he wanted every title and trinket and honorific there was to make it clear he was devoting himself to her. Such things just didn’t exist in his old life but they did out here and he just wanted to do this properly.

Eliza sat up, shifting the sand underneath them and bringing him back to her. She looked at him with fondness and warmth, one hand still gently resting on his cheek.

“Alex,” she sighed, “Don’t worry. The only thing that matters to me about all that ceremony is the promise, y’know? And we have that! We have that in spades!”

“In what?” Alex tilted his head but his smile was slowly creeping back onto his face.

“I mean…okay, here,” Eliza reached down the front of her sundress, searching. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath; she and Alex had decided to entertain themselves as the food was cooking and finding wherever her bra and panties had been flung afterwards hadn’t been top priority. So, it was easy for her to retrieve her necklace.

It was a simple but beautiful thing, like all the jewellery Eliza wore, bought from an antique store in France on some hazy, blissful summer vacation years ago. She and her sisters had disappeared in there to escape the heat and she’d found the silvered pendant in the shape of a paper sailboat, like the kind children made to float across ponds and puddles. Finding it had been like discovering some wonderful treasure or relic and she’d worn it nearly every day of her life since then.

But now she swept it off her neck easily and fastened it around Alex’s. It rested in the valley of his chest like it had been made to lie there.

“Okay,” she met his eyes, her voice breathless and excited, “I, Elizabeth Marie Schuyler, promise to love you, Alexander, for the rest of my life and share everything I have with you and look after you when you feel ill and protect you…and hug you when you’re sad? And…and let you watch those dumb sitcoms you like and not laugh when you wear odd socks…” she broke off as she started to laugh, running out of domestic declarations of love, deciding to finish with simply, “And give my heart only to you. Forever and ever.”

Alex blinked back tears and fought against the closing of his throat, smiling deliriously back at her. He looked down for something to offer her in return, he wore no jewellery, he had no possessions that weren’t shared with her anyway. Hell, he was wearing nothing but a pair of shorts with a hole in the crotch.

But then he knew.

“I’ll be right back,” he grinned through his delighted tears, setting off back to the cottage at his usual, just a little faster than strictly human speed.

Eliza sat back on her heels to wait for him, wiping at her own eyes and grinning like she’d never stop. She felt a little naked without the weight of the necklace, even though it had never been all that noticeable. She didn’t care though, in fact, it was what she wanted, she wanted to be at least a little changed by what she’d just done. She wanted there to be some marker that distinguished who she was then with who she was now.

Alex came back after just a few moments and what he held in his arms fully changed this from what could have been a fun, silly little game between the two of them into something real. He carefully swept his sealskin around her shoulders like an old-fashioned cloak, before the shock wore off and Eliza could think of protesting. It didn’t feel at all like she’d thought a seal’s skin would, just as it didn’t look exactly like the picture she’d held in her mind after the first-time Alex mentioned it. There was barely any weight to the material, more of a prickling, tingling sensation like static. And from the second it touched her skin, it was like Eliza could feel the waves themselves in her chest, a rolling sensation and the cold patter of spray and the sharp smell of salt. She was so moved by it, she barely noticed the deep shudder that ran up Alex’s spine. But she definitely heard the groan that tore from his lips, the kind of noise she’d heard him make before as her hands and mouth and skin had brushed the most intimate parts of him. It startled both of them, Alex was suddenly blushing and his pupils were suddenly dark and wide and wanting.

The words came easily, “I, Alexander, promise to love you, Eliza Schuyler, until the end of my days and all days, swim side by side with you until I have nothing else to give. I promise to guard you from the tide that seeks to separate us and the storm that threatens to lose us and the shark that comes to tear us. I swear, with me you shall always have warmth and security and safety and love, as much as you need until your heart is full. I am yours.”

The words were designed for another cadence, another voice, a language that Eliza would never be able to know. But they worked just fine as they were.

Wiping her eyes had been a waste of time; they were back to flowing freely as she kissed him again, both of them moving to seal their new, nameless bond as the sun finally surrendered completely to the horizon and night fell.

Eliza was still wearing his skin ten minutes later as she bucked and writhed on their bed, Alex’s mouth busy between her legs, avidly working her over. After that, her necklace swung and struck his chest in a perfectly regular, bouncing rhythm as he rocked and moaned while her long fingers opened him and pressed hard on his sweet spot. And when they were both spent, they lay tangled up together in aching, exhausted contentment, looking through the forest of books they owned for their new name.

Eliza rejected ‘Shakespeare’ outright. Alex thought ‘Poe’ hit the ear wrong and, besides, his stories weren’t that scary. ‘Gaiman’ wasn’t quite right, neither was ‘Pullman’ and ‘Voltaire’ was just ridiculous. ‘Austen’ was on the table for a while until Eliza realised that the alliteration would make his name sound clunky. It was Alex who eventually found the right one, lying right there on their bedside table, from the cover of the almost offensively huge science fiction pulp he was currently enjoying. Eliza thought it was only fair to let Alex have the last word, seeing as this was his first go at it.

They ran their new names over each other’s tongues for ages, passing them back and forth with delighted, childlike grins. The skin would return to the varnished chest at the foot of their bed, despite its exchange of ownership. The little silver sailboat would stay around Alex’s neck for the rest of their time together. And, eventually, they would get traditional wedding rings for themselves, as a first anniversary present. But these surnames were always going to be the truest and realest symbol of their marriage.

Alexander Hamilton.

Eliza Hamilton.

[whirlwindflux]

Looking back at TrotCon 2017

For me, deciding which conventions to attend each year is always a challenge. Many times, my decisions are based on distance from home, when I can take my vacation time at work and a combination of community guests, musicians and VIPs. I’ve never been to TrotCon before, and ironically, it’s not the typical things that sold me on this event. Living in Southern Ontario doesn’t give me any local options, but TrotCon happens to be the closest event to where I live. I’m not sure who came up with the witty comment on the website about changing your license plate to TROT-CON, but as soon as I read that, I was sold. With every region of Bronies being a little different, reading that was when I figured of all the Bronies I have met these ones are my kind of people! I purchased an Earth tier sponsor badge, booked my hotel room and waited patiently for the weekend of the event.

Initial Thoughts

Let’s just say this wait wouldn’t be the easiest in the world. Being a new attendee, having only the website to base my decision, I wasn’t sure how things would go or what type of atmosphere to expect. I followed along with the convention on Social Media, the sponsor online streams and group chats like the one on Discord, and I almost had second guessed my decision to go. While funny and entertaining, the TrotCon Twitter account can be somewhat daunting to someone who wasn’t familiar with the event. I thought, well… if nothing else, after the weekend I’d be an expert and I could turn the experience into a meme?

Let’s get this out of way right now. If you attended or followed along online you know what’s coming next. Yes, the schedule changed, and access to spaces at the convention didn’t go as planned. When I first read the post about this, my reaction was of somewhat disappointment. As I thought about it more, and let it sink in, I realized something refreshing! TrotCon was honest and upfront with their attendees. I’ve been to other Brony conventions who kept big changes like this a secret until attendees stumbled upon the changes, didn’t see guests, VIPs or didn’t have promised sponsor rewards ready. This catastrophe was handled properly, tactfully, and actually reassured me that the con staff had this under control and knew how to respect their attendees.

Pre-Con Thoughts

After braving torrential downpour, flash flooding and learning that my car makes a decent boat, I made it to TrotCon only 9 hours after I left home! Travel was more challenging and time consuming than I had anticipated, but, I made it! I was there and ready for everything to begin. As I entered the hotel I was surprised with how many other attendees were already there, just hanging out in the lobby as if this was a normal occurrence. I could already tell this was going to be a great weekend! Sometimes it’s about getting the big things right, other times it’s about getting the little things right. Put a check beside check-in, I totally loved the inclusion of custom room key cards.

It didn’t take long for it to be time for pre-reg badge pickup to begin. As I waited in line, I saw people walking away with tiny boxes. I didn’t know why, but thought it was cool. As it became my turn to pick-up, they handed me a tiny box too! Branded Stable Dweller and with my name on it, I took the box back to my room to look at my loot. If you were a sponsor, you know it was filled with all sorts of cool stuff, including the expected sponsor perks! It also included bonus items like a toaster pin! Oh so clever!

Taking care of your sponsors

Sponsors and Pre-registration are what make a convention possible. They offer funds upfront to the event organizers which allows them to have more community guests and VIPs. As a personal note, I will generally purchase a sponsor badge to any Brony convention I go to. I end up buying most of the things they include at the convention anyway, so why not give them the money upfront? I haven’t always had great experiences with being a sponsor as some perks just don’t get delivered or happen. TrotCon delivered and then some! Not only were the perks unique, like a Nerf blaster, and the t-shirt design stellar, but the presentation to the sponsors, in the tiny box (which fit with the theme), made collecting our perks easy! Honestly, all cons should be doing something like this - not handing over a bunch of stuff with no way to carry it. Just know you knocked it out of the park. Other cons should be taking notes!

Standard Convention Activities

Every convention has panels run by different members of the community, staff and VIPs. TrotCon was no exception here. What I will say is this, I enjoyed the depth, variety and insight of many of the options on the schedule. Many of these things I have never seen before and quite enjoyed. I am not sure if an un-moderated voice actors panel was intended, but it let Peter New and Lee Tockar fly off the rails. I’ve never had so much fun at one these panels before!

The VIP autograph process was fairly standard. Like most conventions, it required attendees to purchase a voucher from the convention to get an autograph. I am not entirely sure why this is the practice (and VIP’s don’t just take cash) but not knowing where to get additional autograph vouchers was a bit of a miss. I did eventually find them at the info desk, of all places.

One of my favourite places at a convention is the Vendor Hall. Many of my favourite vendors were in attendance and I had a great time catching up with many of them since the last time I saw them. I loved the variety of primarily pony-centric items for sale, but the inclusion of many other fandoms was positive and didn’t detract from the experience. Further to that point, as it seems to be a strongly contested one online right now, it didn’t overtake the pony experience, but allowed the artists and vendors to show off some of their other interests. Booths were large enough for most vendors to show off their goods and there was still plenty of room for people to walk around without creating too much congestion. I happened to be in the vendor hall during the fire drill. It was handled in an orderly fashion and as an attendee it wasn’t a huge disruption.

Every great Brony convention has a concert and this one didn’t disappoint! With tons of space to dance and enough seating to take a break, the concert area was well setup. A thank you to all the performers who put on an awesome evening of music! A shout-out to the AV team who put it all together, made sure it worked before the performers got on stage and made transitioning between musicians painless and quick. Not every convention gets the sound or audio balances right - but TrotCon did! Also, not sure who was responsible for this, but, the collection of different animations that evolved through the night was a cool addition!

Unique Events

Conventions have been working hard to create experiences that set them apart from the others.  It’s exciting to have this competition because at the end of the day, you need to attract attendees to make the event happen! With the Fallout Equestria theme, let’s talk about the two most unique events I have ever seen at a convention - Battle for Bottlecap Canyon and Little Pip’s Minefield.

Battle for Bottlecap Canyon was a very cool concept. At it’s basic level it was a Nerf blaster war. Everyone came in, picked up a blaster, was assigned a side and went to war. The backstory to the event which tied it to the theme was well done. The original concept, which was to leave your home base (decided by your faction at registration), enter the middle ground (also known as the wasteland) and attempt to collect things (bags of caps and ammunition) which were hoarded at your base until the end of the round. Sadly, the schedule crunch and high popularity caused this concept to be cast aside for full on war. Getting hit meant you returned to your base, waited for a predetermined amount of time and then continued playing. Although changes were made on the fly, and it was different than advertised, I feel the event was still a success and will hopefully return next year, tweaked and improved!

Little Pip’s Minefield was a real life rendition of the classic computer game Minesweeper. With Minesweeper being one of my personal favourites (sad, I know, but true!) I knew I had to make time for it! In this real life version of the game, a grid of tiles was placed on the ground. Flip a tile to find out how many adjacent tiles had a mine. The twist that tied it to the Fallout Equestria theme was multiple people started at different places. As you progressed, you collected bottle caps, and if you found a mine, you dropped the caps and let the next person carry on solving the grid. The one with the most caps at the end won. I guess I spent far too much time as a kid playing minesweeper - I didn’t hit any mines! However, I think I may have played it too safe - I didn’t recover the most caps either.  Attendance to this event felt light to me, however, I feel this was due to nobody knowing exactly what it was. Ironically the only reason I knew was because I followed the TrotCon Twitter. I enjoyed this event too! Hopefully it will reappear next year bigger and better with the new theme!

Not that I expect or would imagine that anyone who runs TrotCon to ever read this in it’s entirety or beyond the first few lines, I do have ideas with regards to these special events for streamlining the attendee experience and enhancing them in the future! If you want to discuss any of these ideas, come find me on Discord (I am on the TrotCon server) since I have no idea how to find you. I am registered as WhirlwindFlux.

Post-Con Thoughts

When a convention concludes, generally there is sadness and the dreaded post-con depression starts to set in. As I wandered out of closing ceremonies and back to my room I was saddened that the event was over, but as the night progressed, the sadness dissipated leaving a positive happiness in it’s place. Maybe it was the fact that, for my first visit to TrotCon, it was exceptionally positive. Maybe it’s the fact that they just did things right from start to finish. Maybe it was the upfront honesty and integrity. I’m not entirely sure what differentiated this con. I’ve traveled farther distances and met with many different groups of Bronies who have put on their own conventions over the past 4 and half years. Coming back to a comment I made at the very beginning of this review; although I live in Ontario I would, without a doubt, say the Bronies of Ohio and the attendees of TrotCon are my kind of people! If I was only able to go to one convention a year, it would be TrotCon!

TrotCon has a very dedicated staff - they go out of their way to put on a fantastic event! So, to each staff member, organizer and the con-chair, thank you for all of your hard work, dedication, and continued belief in the Brony community! TrotCon was the convention I didn’t know I needed until now. So, if reading this hasn’t convinced you, and not that I wrote this to convince anyone of anything, come to TrotCon - you will not regret it! It surprised me in all the right ways, and with that said, I can’t wait for the next evolution of the event in 2018.

[fandomlife-giver]

Black Maid II - Prologue

Summary: The head maid of the Phantomhive manor faced many challenges and made many sacrifices to fulfill her master's final order. It takes a year to complete her task. Now, she is free.

Or not.

When the soul of her young master is stolen by another demon for his master, she is forced to work side by side with her now demonic mate in order to retrieve it.

Amid the web of lies and deceit running rampant in the Trancy mansion, the bond between Alois and Claude will be tested as hell itself arrives at their doorstep.

Pairings: Sebastian x Demon!Reader x Claude

@wintersdoll

Warnings: Violence, death, rape, physical abuse, sexual abuse

Word Count: 5409

THE FOLLOWING IS NOT THE FIRST CHAPTER, BUT INSTEAD A PRE-SECTION OF YOUR PAST. IN CASE YOU WERE CURIOUS. THE NEXT CHAPTER PUBLISHED WILL BE THE SECOND PART OF THE BACKSTORY. THE FIRST OFFICIAL CHAPTER WILL BE PUBLISHED ON FRIDAY, MAY 26th. ENJOY!

●○○

♪ Oh death, Ooh death♪

♪ Won't you spare me over til another year?♪

"Abigail!"

I jumped and nearly dropped the wooden pitcher of water in my hands. A sigh escaped me as the footsteps stomped over to me.

I turned and looked up at the she-man that towered over me. "Oh, good morning, Sister. Did I wake you?"

Her lips were pressed into a tight line. "What were you doing just now?"

I glanced to the side. "Uhh...singing?"

She reached down and snatched the pitcher from my hands. "A song about death? While you're

tending to the ill? Sounds like an act a devil would commit."

I shamefully looked away. "I just thought it would ease them."

She scoffed. "Ease them?"

"Sister Eunice"

She turned around to meet the frown of mother. "Please refrain from interrupting my daughter while she is working."

Her lip curled up as a smirk made its way on my face and I looked up at her with a small pout.

"Yes, after all, we have the health of God's children to consider."

She narrowed her eyes at me, but still handed me back the pitcher and stormed out of the room, mumbling to herself.

Once she was gone, I let out a giggle and looked up at mother. "I think she was a bit irritated, don't you?"

A smile broke on her face. "Who can tell the difference anyways?"

I grinned as we both broke out into laughter. She walked over and crouched down to the old woman buried in the blankets beside me and put a hand on her forehead.

The old woman turned her head towards her and mother smiled. "Good morning, Martha. Are you feeling any better this morning?"

She heavily breathed out and lightly shook her head. Mother smiled sadly. "Don't you worry now, the Lord will provide. Abigail will be by your side if you need anything, all right?"

She looked at me, but didn't smile or frown, didn't nod or move anything. She just stared. As if she were analyzing me.

Finally, she looked back at mother and gestured for her to lean down. Mother obliged and she whispered something in her ear. I tilted my head when her face paled. She glanced at me and did a shaky laugh.

"Nonsense, Martha. Abigail has been taught all about medicine since she was very young."

Medicine?

"Sister Grace!"

We both turned to the door when aunt Judith came in. Her eyes looked at me, before landing on mother.

"Grace...Mother Superior wishes to speak with you. Right away."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw mother visibly tense up and she gulped. She looked at me and smiled.

"Abby, would you mind placing out a bowl of milk for Tibby and her kittens while I'm gone?"

"Mother, are you okay?"

"Y-yes, I'm fine. Just go feed the cats, won't you, Abby dearie?"

Though I was confused and concerned, I still nodded and stood up. After brushing off my robe, I ran off, careful not to hit aunt Judith on the way.

Mother slowly stood up and walked over to Judith, who looked at her warily. "Please tell me you have a plan on how to handle this."

She forced a smile. "What do you mean?"

"Grace, you were lucky enough to have her this long, you know very well there's only one reason Mother Superior would wish to speak with you."

She smiled. "Judy, stop worrying. All will be the way it was meant to."

●○○

I frowned. Who were they talking about?

I gasped and quickly moved when they walked out of the room and shut the door. I waited until they walked away, before tiptoeing after them.

I peered around the corner and saw Mother and aunt Judith stop and bow their heads before Mother Superior. She removed her glasses and forced a smile.

"Sister Grace." Mother rose her head. "You do know why I called you here, yes?"

She frowned. "Actually, I wasn't told. Why was I called here?"

She opened and closed her glasses for a few seconds. "It's about Abigail."

W-what? Me?

"She's a monster! That beast doesn't belong in a house of the Lord!"

Mother Superior glared at the she-man. "Sister Eunice, please."

She looked back at mom and closed her eyes. "Sister Grace, I'm sorry. We can't allow Abigail White to be housed here, considering-"

"Considering what, Mother Superior?" Her eyes were narrowed and Judith looked at her with wide eyes.

"Grace!"

Mother Superior held up her hand, which silenced Judith. "Sister Jude, it's all right."

She looked directly at mother. "Considering the fact she is the spawn of a devil."

My jaw unintentionally opened. W-What? She can't mean me, right?

Mother was unfazed. "It's not her fault. You can't leave her in the dust because of who her father is."

She nodded. "You are right, Sister Grace. It isn't Abigail's fault of her ancestry." She narrowed her eyes. "It's yours."

She snickered. "Exactly. It's mine, so why would you crucify her? She is a child of the Lord."

Eunice let out a throaty laugh. "Please, that little brat hardly counts as a child. She's a demon! She should burn in hell where she belongs!"

"Sister Eunice!" Mother Superior's sharp voice shut her up. She deeply sighed and looked back at mother with a sorrowful expression. "Grace. I'm sorry, but we do have a fine gentlemen who has agreed to claim her."

"No" Mother's lips curled as she glared at Mother Superior. "Crucify me as well if you must, but no child of mine shall be forced a slave to a common rich white man. If you send my child away from me...I pray you all burn in hell!"

Judith pushed her back. "Grace!"

Eunice charged forward, but Mother Superior held her back. "You no longer have the power to grant damnation. You are no longer a child of God, you are a devil's whore!"

"I could care less of an opinion from a woman who's more of a man than her own father!"

"Both of you, Sisters, that's enough!" Mother Superior froze when light footsteps walked into the room.

Judith's face paled and Mother turned around with a startled look on her face when I stopped in front of them.

I casted my head down and my voice was quiet. "Mother...am I a demon?"

Her heart shattered when I asked that, but Eunice let out a snort. "What did you expect, ya little brat?"

"Sister Eunice." She looked at Mother Superior, who stared at me. "Shut up."

Eunice's eyes widened, but she still looked away with a scoff.

Mother walked forward and knelt down to me. "Abby..." She grabbed my hands, but I stepped back.

"Mother...if I am a demon, wouldn't that make me evil?" When she stayed silent, a tear streamed down my cheek. "I don't wanna be evil. I don't wanna hurt you, mother."

She shook her head with her eyes becoming watery. "No. Dearie, you're not evil. You're not gonna hurt me."

I kept my head down. "Is my dad a devil?"

She bit her lip and reached out for me. I walked closer and she pulled me into her arms.

"Abby...dearie-"

"Is he?"

She flinched. "Yes. Yes, your dad's a devil. But you are not like him. Abby, you're still my little girl."

My bottom lip quivered and my teeth chattered in anger and fear, before I snapped. I pulled myself from her embrace and ran off, my feet going faster than my legs as I bolted out of the room.

"Abigail!"

My vision became watery as I ran and the nuns moved out of the way as I sprinted. Once I reached the back doors, I pushed them open and continued running.

My mind was racing with all sorts of thoughts and emotions, and I didn't know what else to do. I stopped and fell to my knees in a sobbing mess.

Is this why everyone treated me different? Were they just afraid of me this whole time?

As much as I tried to hold it in, the pain came out like an uproar from my throat in the form of a silent scream. The beads of water started falling down one after another, without a sign of stopping. I hit the ground, ripping the grass out and tried to scream, but my voice was melted by the sound of the pounding. The muffled sobs wracked against my chest. The world turned into a blur, and so did all the sounds. The taste. The smell. Everything was gone.

*crunch*

My head shot up and I was met with perfectly polished black shoes.

I glanced up and saw the towering form of a man. He had unusually dark, yet pretty features. The red crimson eyes and light grey hair had me dazing dreamily.

"Why do you cry, child?"

I stared up at him with wide eyes and when he held out his hand to me, I just looked at it curiously.

"It's all right, you can cry. It's better than keeping your emotions locked up. Those who do can be manipulated very easier than others."

I wiped my tears with my palm. "How do you know that?"

He smirked. "Believe me, it's what I use to my advantage." His smirk fell as he stared directly into my eyes. "Your eyes. They're red." He narrowed his. "The color of anger and evil. A color that is left to be seen when blood is spilt." He smiled. "It means you have a fire in you that cannot be extinguished. That's a trait we share."

My breath hitched as he stood up and I flinched as he rubbed his hand on the top of my head, then turned and walked away.

I looked behind me as he walked up to the main entrance to the convent, then he stopped with his feet at the base of the door. He glanced back and smirked.

My eyes widened as I watched his briefly glow pink and slitted. "Like father, like daughter."

●○○

I gazed at my reflection but I did not see what Mother saw. She would always say my eyes are what made me unique and they made me stand out above everyone else. I now realize how wrong she was.

My reflection went blurry from the ripples in the water as one of the kittens stepped in the puddle.

I giggled and reached over to pick her up. "Come on, Felis. You shouldn't get yourself wet or your paws will get all muddy."

She meowed and put her paw on my nose. I smiled.

"Why'd you name it Felis?"

I jumped. I peered over, half expecting it to be the devil from before, but...it wasn't.

This man was different. He was bald and, well, ugly. He smirked. "You gonna sit there all day or ya gonna answer the question, sugar pie?"

I gulped and looked down. "W-well, it's Latin for feline and...I've been studying Latin for years and-"

He grabbed my chin and made me look at him. "You should look at me when I'm talking to you."

He looked at the person behind him. "She needs to be reminded of authority, but other than that, she'll satisfy me, for now. How much you want for her?"

What does he mean how much?

"Eh, you can have the brat for let's say... $300." Wait, I know that voice.

"$300? It's a little steep, but I bet she's worth it."

I leaned to the side and my breathing stopped when he handed her the sack of coins. She looked inside and grinned, then looked down at me with a frown. "What are you staring at?"

"A-Aunt Judith? Why are you doing this?!"

She scoffed. "Why? Ever since Grace gave birth to you- this entire convent has gone down hill, fearing the day you would reveal what you truly are."

"But I'm not a monster!"

"Shut it. You're somebody else's problem now.

●○○

There was the noise of a knob turning and then the door swung open, not slow, but fast and with enough force to drive the door into the plaster opposite.

Black polished shoes crossed over the threshold, the rose tinctured garden air giving way to the stronger smell of lemon scented bleach. The clueless nun was cleaning like she meant to scrub the world away, not once looking up to see who had entered the convent.

"Sister Rose, is that you?"

Her head shot up and her heart jumped in her throat. Rose stood, her breathing suspended, reaching for the shotgun in the closet.

"Oh, Rose..." Her scream was silenced when he appeared behind her and put his finger to her lips.

"There's no need for that. You wouldn't happen to know where Grace is, would you?"

She just let out a scream. He didn't even need to snap her neck, because she fainted after she screamed.

He sighed and let her fall to the floor. "You always were a screamer."

He turned and walked down the hall, rubbing his neck.

♪Oh death, Ooh death♪

♪Won't you spare me over til another year?♪

By the sound of his voice and his approaching footsteps, a group of nuns ran into a nearby room, shutting and locking the door.

♪Well what is this that I can't see,

With ice cold hands taking hold of me♪

A nun ran towards him with a knife in hand, but he easily grabbed her arm with one hand and snapped her neck with the other.

♪Well I am death none can excel,

I'll open the door to heaven or hell,

Whoa death someone would pray,

Could you wait to call me another day♪

Her body fell and he simply stepped over it.

♪The children prayed the preacher preached, Time and mercy is out of your reach♪

♪I'll fix your feet so you can't walk, I'll lock your jaw so you can't talk♪

He cracked his knuckles as he reached the main double doors.

♪I'll close your eyes so you can't see, This very hour come and go with me♪

♪Death I come to take the soul, Leave the body and leave it cold♪

♪To drop the flesh up off the frame,

Dirt and worm both have a claim♪

He put his hands on the doors and turned the handles.

♪Ooh death Whooooah death,

Won't you spare me over 'til another-

He froze when he was met with the barrel of a rifle against his chest. A smirk spread as he lifted his head up.

"My dear...you know very well how this will end if you pull that trigger."

Her eyes widened. "V-Victor?"

He grinned and grabbed the barrel of the gun, before throwing it to the side. "Grace"

She stumbled backwards as he walked closer with a hungered look in his eyes. Her back hit the front of Mother Superior's desk and he placed his palms on either side to trap her.

He leaned forward and inhaled her scent. He smiled. "Sweet rose buds." He ran his fingers through her hair and she closed her eyes as he did.

"A dark violet color. Something so sweet could be so deadly." Her eyes opened as he breathed against her lips. "I've missed you, my dear."

He looked at her, his eyes glistening in the darkness. She knew what was coming and glanced away, then shyly looked back at him. His hand reached under her hair below her ear, his thumb caressing her cheek. Her lips parted and their breaths mingled. Her heart fluttered as he drew her to his lips.

Her arms reached up and tangled around his neck. She breathed in sharply and kissed him harshly, his arms encircling her waist drawing her in, his lips hungry for hers.

"Sister Grace!"

She jumped and pulled away, looking to their audience. Mother Superior narrowed her eyes at her, but when he turned around, they widened.

"You!"

He kept his grip on Grace and smirked at her. "Mother Superior...You're still alive?" Grace hit him on the chest and he chuckled.

She stepped forward, all while glaring at him. "You are not welcome here, devil. Your presence doesn't belong in the house of the Lord!"

His head snapped to the right when the rifle was picked up and aimed at him.

Grace stepped in front of him and held her hand out. "No, Judy, stop!"

"Sister Grace" She looked back at Mother Superior who stared at her in shock and betrayal. "You are a disgrace to this convent. You turn your back on the Lord and allow yourself to be corrupted by the anti-Christ!"

"That's enough." Her words stopped when his voice rang out in annoyance.

He cracked his neck and looked at Grace. "Grace. May I have a word with Abigail?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but Mother Superior beat her to it. "We would never allow something like you to touch a child under our protection. Be gone, now-"

"Mother Superior. She is my child." Her face paled as he stepped closer to her. "Besides, I've already had a nice chat with her. She is definitely mine. I think she deserves a little quality time with me, after all these years, don't you?"

He glanced back at Grace and pulled her close. "Now, Grace, may I?"

She looked down. "She overheard us and learned the truth. Once she did, she ran. We haven't seen her since."

"Good riddance."

His head rose and he slowly turned to look at Judith, who still had the rifle aimed at him. He walked closer, and her hands shook as she held the gun. He got closer, and his frown matched his angered eyes.

She dropped the gun and stepped back, but he still walked closer, until her back was to the wall.

"What was that?"

Shakily, she reached up and grabbed the cross around her neck. "N-nothing"

He looked down and noticed the large bulge in her chest. She was frozen when he grabbed her throat to hold her in place, then reached inside her robe.

Grace's eyes widened. "Victor!"

His eyes stayed locked with Judith's as he pulled out a small bag. Her eyes shut when he jingled it and the sound of coins animated.

"What do we have here?"

Her eyes opened and she reached for it, but he slammed her back against the wall, earning a gasp. He leaned closer to her and grinned his fangs. "Judith...do you know where Abigail is?"

She gulped. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."

Grace narrowed her eyes and stomped forward, to where she was in front of her. "Judy, if you know anything about where Abby is, spill. If you value anything in our friendship, you will speak now!"

She flinched. Her eyes shut as she bit her lip and shook her head. "It had to be done."

"What had to be done?"

She glared at him. "All she caused here was fear and panic, she was a problem that needed to be ridded!"

*smack*

Her eyes widened as her cheek stung and she couldn't register it when Grace grabbed her face and dug her nails in to her flesh. "You listen to me you selfish little bitch, you will tell me where my daughter is right now or I will rain down on you like the holy ghost."

Her breathing sped up. "I-I sold her. A rich man was interested in having her to himself and...he gave me $300 for her. H-He lives in a manor a few towns over."

Her jaw clenched. "You sold my daughter as a slave!!"

She lunged forward, but Mother Superior came up and pulled her back. "Sister Grace, calm yourself!"

"If he harms her, I will have your head!! You hear me?!?!, your goddamn head!!"

He sighed. "What a shame." He pulled her face down and smirked. "I just had lunch. But that doesn't matter now. I can't wait to taste the led in your blood."

Tears spilled from her eyes. "I had to do it!"

"Shut it." He let go of her, she dropped to the floor and began grossly bawling onto it as he walked over to Grace. As she fought Mother Superior, he grabbed her arms and pulled her close.

She sobbed into his chest and screamed in anger. He whispered into her hair. "Grace, I need you to stay here. Don't worry, I'll get her back."

She breathed out and looked up at him with watery eyes. "Make them suffer. I want to see the blood on your hands."

He smirked. "Of course, my dear."

●○○

(JUST A WARNING THIS PART CONTAINS SEXUAL ABUSE AND RAPE< IF YOU WANT TO SKIP< SCROLL DOWN UNTIL YOU SEE THIS ~~~~~)

I jumped when the door opened and I scooted backwards until my back hit against the wall.

"Get up."

I stayed frozen, too afraid of what he would do next.

"I said get up!"

He stomped over and I yelped when he grabbed me by my hair and pulled me to stand up. I tried to cover myself, feeling too vulnerable in the short and very revealing maid's outfit.

His greasy, clammy hand ran over my face in a sexual manner. My lip trembled as I tried to move away. His grip was strong. He pulled my face towards his and breathed the scent from my neck.

"It's been a while since I've had my own little toy. I can't wait to have more fun with you."

My eyes closed and my desperate fear made me speak. "P-please, I just wanna go home. If you take me back or let me go now, you can still be forgiven for your sins."

"Shut up!" He threw me to the ground, the impact making the dirt fly in my face.

"I don't want to hear about your incompetent God. Just shut up and don't try anything, girl."

My breathing sped up when I heard his pants unzipping. "Wait! You-"

He shoved my head in the dirt and held my arms down. "I said shut up!"

His hot breath formed on my ear. "Just let me have this." His lips moved down to my neck and nipped at the tender skin. Tears formed in the soil as I flinched in pain. My skin bruised so easily, I knew it would make another mark. It seemed like he did too. He began to suck at the skin furiously, until I let out a noise of panic.

I squirmed, but he placed a knee on my back, which kept me in place. I felt the skirt lift up and my legs were forced apart.

I was sobbing in the ground when he thrusted. It was so painful. It felt like I was being ripped apart. I wasn't surprised that he wasn't gentle, but still...maybe I deserve this.

I'm a demon. Maybe this is my punishment for betraying God.

He grunted and I let out a silent scream. It felt like a year, never stopping. It hurt so much. My fists clenched in the dirt. What kind of punishment is this? No-one should deserve this humiliating torture. My head began hurting as my teeth chattered and my face grew heated.

Why would he let me suffer like this?! I've believed my entire life, for what? An absent god?! More like a coward!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*crash* *boom*

My head shot up as he fumbled over his pants zipper and stood up. "Hey! What the hell is going on out there?"

A hole was punched through the door as a man flew through it and hit the wall in a blood splatter.

He stepped back and looked at the man. "Bob?"

My attention turned to the heavy footsteps beyond the impaled door. The man's eyes widened as the person stepped through the door and stopped.

I breathed out as my eyes looked over him. "Polished black shoes..."

He brushed off the dust and cracked his knuckles. His red eyes landed on me. "There you are, Abigail. Your mother and I were wondering where you went."

He frowned once he noticed the state I was in. My eyes were wide, I was shaking from emotion as I hugged myself. There was cuts and bruises covering me from beneath my revealing outfit. His eyes narrowed as they shifted over to the man who stared at him in fear.

"Who the hell are y-cacagh!"

His choking cut himself off as the devil's hand squeezed around his throat. "Now, if I couldn't locate and come to my daughter's rescue, well then what kind of a father would I be?"

His eyes were popping out as he reached out in a weak attempt to hit him. "A-All right, she's all yours. She wasn't that satisfying, a-anyways."

A snarl sounded. "Satisfying? You take a delicious word and make it so vulgar. You've touched her. You've tainted and violated her. You've humiliated her. That I cannot forgive."

"N-no! Wait!"

He looked at me and smiled. "Abigail, would you mind closing your eyes for me?"

He didn't have to ask twice. My eyes tightly shut and I buried my head in my arms as his screams filled the room. "Nah!-cagh!!!!"

●○○

*bong* *bong* *bong*

My eyes opened and they shut at the bright morning light. I looked down and saw the polished black shoes crunching the ground. My eyes moved up to the person that was carrying me.

He looked down and smiled. "I see you're awake."

I looked away. "How are you feeling?"

My voice was quiet. "A week. I was his slave for a week." My eyes closed. "Why did you come for me?"

He stayed silent and looked forward, until he suddenly stopped. I looked at his surprised face and followed his line of sight. I gasped.

There were nuns, lying face down in pools of blood, scattered around the convent.

I scrambled to get out of his hold and ran inside. The door was slammed open and there was sister Rose, sprawled out with wide eyes. I continued running down the hall.

He stared at her in confusion. "She was alive when I left her..."

"No!! Mother!!"

His heart stopped when he heard me scream.

No. N-No, No!

I collapsed on her, shaking her to see if she would respond. "M-mother? Mommy? It's okay. You're okay. I'm okay. I'm here, mother." I grabbed her hand that was covered in blood and stared at her eyes that were wide open and tears were falling from them.

My head was shaking in disbelief. "No!!"

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up with teary eyes as he knelt down and stared at her. He stroked her cheek and sighed. "My dear. Even in death, your beauty never fades."

My eyes dripped with tears. My walls, the walls that held me up, made me strong just... collapsed. Moment by moment, they fell. Salty drops fell from my chin, drenching my shirt. Perhaps these tears would help wash the blood out. I pressed my head against the wall... little Abigail, so innocent... I am anything but innocent. I'm just a monster, the spawn of a devil.

I was trembling. I could-couldn't stop. Even as I pressed my hand against the wall it shook, it trembled. It was raw, everything, raw tears, raw emotions. I couldn't stop... I couldn't stop. Why could I not stop crying?

"Who would do this?!?!!!"

I rocked back and forth as my question rang out.

"Not a who."

We both looked to the side and saw a lean man, with long gray hair and a single braid on his right side, carrying a silver, long curved blade with a skull a top the handle.

He wore a pair of half-framed silver-square glasses, a black trench coat, a white dress shirt, a black tie and a pair of black gloves and shoes.

My lip trembled. "W-what?"

He adjusted his glasses as he closed the book in his hands. "An it. Not a who." He looked over at me. "It was an angel."

I stood up and looked at him suspiciously. "An angel? That's impossible, angels don't kill!"

He hummed. "The sane ones don't."

"Hold on. Mr., who are you?"

He giggled and walked closer. "Who am I? Why, I'm a Grim Reaper, of course. Here to reap all these poor unfortunate souls."

I have a small gasp. "A reaper? Here?"

"Agh!" My head snapped to my father, and when he collapsed to the floor with a pruner impaled through his heart, I jumped back with wide eyes.

The pruner pulled out and repeatedly stabbed through his heart again and again, until it stopped. "Filthy demonic scum."

I covered my opened mouth in shock as I stared down at him. "No. No, no, no, no. This can't be happening..."

"Spears!"

The man with the grey hair stomped over. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

There was a tall man with short, dark brown hair and yellow-green eyes. He also wore rectangle-shaped glasses, and a suit like the other man.

"It was a demon, sir. I had to rid of it-"

"Not without my word, no, you did not!" He sighed and looked down at my shaking, petrified form. "What's your name?"

I was too scared to answer him. I had just lost my mom...and my dad in one day.

He noticed this, and knelt down to me. He removed his glasses and stared at me. My breath hitched. His eyes...they were beautiful. He had chartreuse phosphorescent eyes.

"Now, why don't you tell me your name, dearie?" He grinned.

I managed a smile. "A-Abigail. Abigail White."

"Abigail, do you live here?"

I shrugged. "I did. Now I'm not so sure."

He glanced at mother. "Is she your mother?" I nodded, and he glanced at the devil. "Do you know what he was, Abigail?"

I slowly nodded. "He was a devil."

He stared at me curiously. "And why were you with him?"

I looked away. "He...was my father."

The man named Spears looked at me with a glare. "The spawn of a demon?" He stepped forward, but the grey haired man held his hand up.

"That will be enough, William. Can't you see the fear in this child?"

"But sir, she's a demon!"

"No, she's not." I looked up at him with wide eyes as he smiled. "Her mother was human. Her father was a demon. She is neither human, nor demon. You are something very special, Abigail."

I looked at him with hope. "I-I'm not a demon?"

"Of course not. Oh! Pardon me, where are my manners? My name is Adrian Crevan. This is William T. Spears, here."

He gestured to the other man, who lowered his weapon. "So, what is she then?"

He hummed. "I'm not sure. I've never seen this before. I imagine something close to an Angel if she were purified by one."

I scoffed. "I'd rather be a demon."

They both widened their eyes.

"My whole life...I've devoted myself to this so called God. Look where that's left me. If I am an angel, I want my wings to be painted with the blood I will shed for this day."

He grinned at me, then looked at William. "Why don't you head back and report this? I can handle things from here."

His eyes widened, but he still walked away with a sigh. "Yes, sir."

He looked back to me. "Abigail, how would you like to stay with me?"

I froze. "Go with you?"

●○○

Side by side, hand in hand, I walked with my new best friend. The daughter of a demon and a human, walking with a Grim Reaper. It sounded like a bad joke.

We walked away in silence, with Felis asleep in my arms, disappearing in the rain.

And that was the last time anyone would ever see Abigail White again.

[jillmckenzie1]

Postcard Foods

My New Year’s Resolution for 2019 was “Stick to a Meal-Planning Regimen.” If you Google this idea, you get all the kitchen-blogger schtick about how preparing meals in advance saves you time and money, helps you lose weight, yadda yadda yadda. These things are both completely true and exceptionally boring. I wasn’t trying to save time or lose weight. I was going through a deeply difficult period and I was struggling to do things as basic as feed myself. I would make meals ahead of time and then I would require myself to actually sit down to eat them and say the out loud the words, “Someone loves me enough to make this meal for me.” Even if that someone was me, especially because that someone was me, the love and care that is good food gradually helped me through.

I’ve stayed on the meal-planning regimen ever since because it really does help to eat good food in the midst of a hyper-busy modern existence. Having a hot, tasty, comforting meal close at hand improves your quality of life enormously. Frozen “dinners” from the grocery store are generally too small, as well as nutritionally terrifying and gustatorily unpleasant. I was happy to try another option this week from Postcard Foods, a local Denver business that supplies hot meals and frozen options-to-go from their proprietarily charming bright-red food truck.

Postcard Foods is run by the wife-and-husband team Bridget Bagel (yes, her real name) and Jim Abraham. It got started when she prepped meals for the both of them so that they could eat together over video chat when they were long-distance dating. If these two didn’t seem so genuinely enchanted with each other, my profoundly single self might find this to be despicably adorable, but I’ll give them a pass on it. Their long-distance affection and connection morphed into their current business, wherein you either get hot food directly from their food truck or you can pick up an oven-safe, compostable tray of professionally-home-cooked food that doubles as a shortcut to self-care. I tried it out this week with three of their offerings, each named for a region of the world I’d like to visit: D.F. Chicken Enchiladas, Liguria Pesto Polenta, and Chang Mai Tofu Yellow Curry.

I got the frozen trays home and read the instructions. In the conventional oven or the microwave, they basically said, “Cook until it’s nice and hot.” I chose the oven because the inherent vice of pre-made foods, no matter the source, is a lack of crunch and I hoped that the oven would help remedy that. You can cook these from frozen or from thawed, which is a nice touch if you’re packing them for a skiing or camping weekend and the ice conditions in your cooler are variable. The trays went in at 350 degrees and in a few minutes, I noticed a smell of “hot paper.” I was a little concerned that the tray might ignite, but it definitely did not, and it didn’t emit any smoke or anything.

It took two episodes of Norsemen on Netflix, or about 45 minutes, to reach an internal temp of 200 degrees (last few minutes with the lid of the tray removed and I used a kitchen thermometer, but you could also just watch for bubbling in the center of the food). I spent the last couple minutes of oven-time reading the ingredient list for each entree. They averaged 19 items if you count each spice (marjoram, basil, oregano, salt, etc.) separately, and included such mysterious ingredients as “mushrooms” and “avocado oil.” As a quick comparison, I looked up the Hungry-Man frozen dinners website. Their enchiladas contain upwards of 45 ingredients and such delicacies as “Yellow #6” and “hydrogenated beef fat.” But, I was reassured by Hungry-Man copywriter, “the BHT improves stability.” I am sure I will be relieved to know that, once I find out what BHT is. I plated out the Postcard polenta and enchiladas, cracked open a snobby local beer, and tucked in.

For reference, I spent the majority of the month of June doggedly chewing my way through a deeply unsuccessful set of meals that I had totally messed up in cooking but was reluctant to throw away for reasons of pandemic thriftiness. It was twenty servings of ugly and unpalatable. I made it through 18 before my nerve ran out and I tossed the last two. The Postcard Foods meals were the Platonic-ideal of the opposite of my June purgatory. The polenta was bright, savory, and robust, full of large pieces of mushroom. My dinner companion, who is not any kind of flavor-sensitive gourmand, called out the discernable presence of multiple, distinct cheeses. In his words, “Eating this at the end of a long ski day would be…amazing.” The enchiladas equally held their own. The tortillas managed to be crisp on top (thanks, conventional oven!) and had a surprising bite of chili-heat inside. I maxed out, sated, after the polenta and one enchilada. My companion returned happily for seconds on both and at least two more meals of leftovers remained in the trays. The tofu curry also portioned out into four generous meals (I added some rice as a substrate), which I consumed in the breakroom at work, to the envy of my coworkers and their vending-machine lunches.

After 1.5 years of consistently preparing my meals ahead of time, I’ve run into a set of challenges and I can see how anyone who’s doing similar work, including Postcard Foods,  would do the same. Texture, particularly crispiness/crunchiness, is really, really hard to capture in pre-made meals, from my kitchen or a professional one. It just doesn’t happen without undergoing massive and nutrition-depleting engineering. Cheetos crunch and the lasagna your mom sends home with you after a visit doesn’t; there are reasons for both of these facts.  I also don’t make “challenging” entrees. I make things that I will eat multiple times in a row, with no surprises (see: June’s failure). Postcard Foods supersedes these far better than I honestly expected from takeout/frozen entrees. Their enchiladas had a crunchy tortilla and their fifteen menu items far outreach my half-dozen go-to dishes.

Here’s the takeaway message (“to-go” message?): I really enjoyed eating this food. It was hot, tasty, familiar, interesting. These entrees felt like a big, homemade hug that happened to also taste really good. Eating it made me want to say out loud, “Someone loves me enough to make this meal for me.”

If you want a big polenta/enchilada/homemade soup hug of your own, the Postcard truck can be found most days at 1041 Co Rd 308, Dumont, CO 80436, which is 7 miles west of Idaho Springs off of exit 234, under the FUEL sign. You can also order online for free delivery. Either way, use the code <OnDenver> for a special OnDenver readership discount (buy three non-soup meals and get the fourth for free) until the end of July 2020! But only do that if, you know, you like good food.

from Blog https://ondenver.com/postcard-foods/

[amatchgirl]

Homemade Ikea Meatballs!

Homemade Ikea Meatballs!

(chopping board scraping) – Ah, Jesus. (triumphant instrumental) (words popping) – Top of the morning to you folks. Nothing says good morning, I don't know where that went. More at 9 a.m. than making some meatballs. But not just any meatballs, oh no, look at this tweet, look at this tweet right here. (angelic chorus) Ikea, the internationally renowned Swedish furniture store, which we do actually shop in quite a bit. This table, this table right there is from Ikea. This chair that you remember, it's being sort of passed around the house at the moment, in our temporary living room, it's from Ikea. Innit kids? – Hello. – [Chloe] Hello. – All right? – Yep. – [Chloe] Yep. – That's an extension update, by the way. Phoebe's wardrobe. So yeah, we genuinely do have some Ikea products around the house. I was gonna do a brand deal with them about six months ago, but it just didn't feel, what they wanted, felt kind of right, but maybe one day in the future. They've got this weird character bloke chap on there. Can you see that? He's like a happy little man going, "Hello." But he is on all of their packaging and their instructions to make things, if you've ever built anything with Ikea, you will see that guy, and he will haunt your dreams. (ominous music) At first you'll be like, "I can't do it, I just need a hammer, that's all I've got." And then you do it, and then all of a sudden this guy becomes your best friend, and you end up with loads of boxes and these everywhere. Shall we make meatballs? So we're going to make the meatballs first. These are the ingredients we're going to go for, the beef and pork mince, very common in meatballs, but I'm gonna actually add that in last so I've got my hands non raw meat kind of vibe. Now, the only thing I don't like about the instructions is it hasn't given you a list of tools that you need, like a chisel and they've always got these weird wooden noggins inside. Got so many of them in my garage. (electronic fairground music) So it says an onion, finely chopped. What I tend to do is find the little bum, the corey bit, and then aim towards that. Now horizontal cut, and another horizontal cut, and I can get another cheeky one in just on the top, and then just straight down like that. See, you get it all nice and diced. Dice your onion. Oh, and get rid of the bum bit, no one wants the bum in their meatballs. (fast chopping) And also try not to cry. These are emotional onions today, wow. (fast chopping) Ah, I'm crying, I'm watching Titanic, oh my gosh. I am actually crying right now. That doesn't normally happen. That's a nice strong onion, nice. There is onion goggles, one of the first gadgets I ever reviewed for that. Mm-hmm. I also could have used my veggie chopper, but I haven't actually got a full one myself in the house yet, cause I sold them all. But I have got a garlic rocker, look, a Barry Lewis garlic rocker in the veggie kit, which is coming back soon on Amazon. Like that. Garlic, onions. Bread crumbs. I can't find many things in this house. I keep looking in the wrong cupboards. – [Rebecca] Other cupboard. – I get really emotional. – Gosh that onion is strong. – Are you crying as well? We're all crying. Breadcrumbs, right? This is a true story. Someone asked me on Twitter, the other day. I don't tend to like putting breadcrumbs in a burger but it does to sort of bond, bind and hold it. – [Rebecca] All done. – Nice. Someone said to me, is there any alternative? And apparently if you whiz up Rice Krispies breakfast cereal into really fine powder, because it's just something to kind of plug the gaps, (shakes can) that's an alternative. So, I don't know if she did that, and if she did I don't know if she ended up with a Rice Krispie burger, but you don't tend to taste these anyway. This is a bit worrying. The last time I used these scales, they are already nearly 200 grammes out. That's probably why we had a really floury cake the other day (laughs). So, a hundred, nope, it's not, I only reset it to a hundred. You donkey, that's alright. I'll set it to two hundred. Hundred grammes of breadcrumbs, apparently. I love how I've randomly got my hammer still on the table from the opening scenes (laughing). All right, so we might as well start adding some of this into somewhere otherwise the table is just going to get completely covered in random bits and bobs. Story of my life. Oh, crumbs. A egg, salt and pepper. No salt bay today, feels very 2018 doesn't it? Okay, so other than the meat, the only other thing we need is milk. I have never put milk or any other wet mixture into… I need tablespoons, they've done it in tablespoons not mls. So one, two, three, four, five. I have never, ever put milk or water, or any other extra fluid, other than an egg, into a meatball or burger mix. That's the thing, actually, if you wanted you could make one giant Ikea meatball or just burgers. It doesn't have to be meatballs, does it? Just put the meat in. Instant regret, the fact that I should've picked up a bigger bowl earlier on. Doesn't matter. Taking my ring off, if I can. Oh my gosh. (ring clattering) I'm so married it hurts, look. Okay, in we go. Now, I'm going to try and keep one hand clean. Ugh, I've got some meat on my table. So, we're bringing together, look, I'm squishing the yolk up. Bringing that together, the onion, the garlic. Oh, the smell in there is amazing. Oh my gosh. This is the set up I've got. I've got to bend down so low that it's going everywhere. Thank you to everyone that's mentioned the kitchen that we're temporarily using that I was, like, "Oh, I really didn't want to show you this." It looks a lot like the very first kitchen that I filmed in. It does! It looks identical in places. Anyhow that's looking quite good now. We're getting a fairly consistent mixture. We want to kind of hide those breadcrumbs in there. Oh my gosh! Yes, imagine just making that as one big meatball. Nice. Now, I really wish I had my wish.com meatball maker thing from a previous gadget we did, because now we just shape them into the meatball shapes. Yeah, it has kind of defeated the point of my hands-free making because I've got to use both to make extra-large table tennis ball shapes. I feel like I'm making some sort of meatball documentary. Hello, welcome to Making Meatballs Part 5. I'm gonna skip to this. Let's get them all done. (oven timer ringing) Oh, Jesus. I've gotta make some more now, they fell on the floor! (Laughing) Just for that shot, as well. (Sighing) Okay, I've got another batch. I'm only making nine. I've made them quite small and you can actually get loads out of that mix. This is how much I've got left. So we're gonna save that for tea tonight. We don't really wanna have… Did I just say "tea"? I dunno if I've ever said that. High Tea. It's very English. Tea, dinner, whatever. I call tea and dinner the same thing. Let's discuss that in the comments if you want? Fight it out amongst yourselves, I don't mind. So we're just gonna go for the nine. Now when you make a burger or meatball it is good to refrigerate it and the steps do say to refrigerate them for two hours. I ain't got time for that and you probably ain't got time for that. We'll cover it, yes, Wrapmaster 3000. (Angelic chorus) And I'm gonna stick these in the special fridge, the freezer, for about ten minutes. All right, I just Wrapmastered the rest and you can put it in the fridge, too, once you cover it. Or you can put it in the freezer for another day and you could make meatballs on Christmas Day. All right so we're using our hob. So the recipe states, ladies and gents, to fry these at first and then bake them in the oven. So we're gonna stay true to the recipe. I would not normally do that. I would normally get my pan, fry it and brown it as it tells you to and then create an oven by sticking a lid on and then keeping it moving around and around and around. But no, we'll stay true to Mr Swedish Stickman and make it work as they want it to. This goes really weird as well. When you ignite it you get a really hot flame and then you turn it down. I don't think that's good for safety is it, look. (ignition clicks) Ugh, that's the wrong one. That's the grill! (Laughing) What I mean is, look, it's a high flame first to get it going and it has to turn this way. So, look, we're gonna get a big flame. (Ignition clicking) See that? That's huge! Surely, like my other hobs in the past have all been you start with a low flame first. I dunno, crazy. I guess most people aren't normally filming when they cook Swedish meatballs. So a good little drop of oil, there. Oh yeah, we're gonna get this nice and warmed up. It's gonna be sizzly. So our temporary oven thing, it says 180C conventional fan. 180C is here, we'll just get it going. (beeps) It's gonna warm up. Lovely jubbly. Light is on. Also our smart metre today is indicating I've already spent 80p on electricity. (sizzling) All right. Slowly adding in the meatballs, rolling them down. Wey-hey! (laughing) We are just browning them, we are just going to keep them moving. So this is to get the outsides that almost golden colour. Cause that gives it that crunch, that lovely texture on it. Like charring things in general, like toast, I love mine darker because you just get that more char, that flavour. It's not burned always. Sometimes it is, that's your get-out card, all right? When you go to a barbecue and you get a burned sausage? They charred it, all right? Naw. All right. So our oven is pre-heated whilst that was cooking away. Lining it with a sil pad or baking parchment or whatever you've got. Ugh, stick it down. (funky music) Incidentally, if you like the idea of spatulas and tongs and stuff, that's my next kit after the Veggie Prep Kit. We're working on it right now. There'll be news on that soon. Now, you need to cover this. (foil crunching) And by doing that it's going to basically reinact the lid thing that I was talking about earlier in the pan. It's good. I miss doing that because I like rolling them around. But this is going in the oven for about half an hour. And that, although we've cooked the outside and charred it, by baking it it's gonna cook it through the middle. Nice. So do keep an eye out for those other kits that we're launching. And I did have a company last week got in touch about the Wrapmaster, saying "Hey Barry you use your Wrapmaster so much, "would you like us to help you develop your own Bazmaster?" And I'm like, Bazmaster! That's amazing. I had all these ideas. And I was like, I dunno, I kind of stay loyal to my Wrapmaster, you know? Got the frying pan here to one side. Still a teeny bit warm hence me putting the trivet down. I've cleaned it out fully because I want to stay true to this recipe but if I was gonna do it normally I'd leave a little bit of that juice from the meatballs cooking in it and the oils to go into this sauce. Oh, I really wish I did that now. You do that, do it, it'll be good. So step 5 is the sauce, we're kind of mingling around here and it's full of flavour. We have got some vegetable stock. I made this earlier. So good. And this is beef stock as well, so you've got vegetable stock and beef stock going in. It is the most confused sauce in the world. You've got some soy sauce. We've got some double cream, obviously it is a creamy sauce so that's it. Double cream is also known as heavy cream. And of course le Dijon mustard. Something that I don't use that often although it is nice with a toasted ham sandwich. Very nice indeed. Wow! (coughs) I'm really excited about that. The meatballs are smelling sensational right now. What we're gonna do, first up, to help thicken this sauce, this is some flour. I should melt the butter really but I like to live dangerously. (high pitched stuttering) And we're gonna go to crazy flame again. Ooh, look at that. Turn that right down, I want a bit more control. (mediaeval horns) A lot of people say to me, "Barry why do you like a flame so much?" Well, you see that? You know how you can sort of see what the flame is doing? I guess it's kind of like going back to caveman cooking with a flame, I just like that. I know there's induction hobs that are a bit safer and electrical ones and all that sort of stuff but I've never quite understood what is four, what is seven on an electric hob? Is that hot? Is that this? Is that that? It's just I've never really got on with them. I don't mind, but that's why I'll always try and have a gas hob if I can. There we go, enough hob chat for one day. (mediaeval horns) There we go, it's all mingled together now. So we're just cooking this off for about a minute and as we add the fluid this will all dissolve through. It might be good to switch to a whisk, but we'll add our fluids now. Okay, so in goes that vegetable stock. Wow. (furious sizzling) The beef stock. What does it say, what does it say? Uh, two teaspoons of soy sauce. So a good shake and a good shake. A teaspoon of the mustard, that's gonna give it some kick. And last but not least, ugh, hello cream! 150 mls of that going in. This is going to be amazing. We really just want to mix it over the heat to get all of those flowery, buttery lumps out and integrated with the sauce. And apparently that will be it done. We've got five seconds, that's going to auto shut off. The smell is stonking coming from there. They're gonna be so tender. (oven alarm beeping) And there's the beep. But look, if you leave this for too long, like I've just literally stepped away from a nice medium heat it does form a skin and it can burn the bottom of the pan. So do, I have been stirring it, it has thickened up so it's great, but like I say that's how quick if you take your eye off it how you can actually probably ruin the sauce and burn it. So make sure you keep it on a low heat, keep it stirring, I'm gonna take this off the heat and keep stirring a little bit more and that will be it done. Waaah. Ho ho ho! Yes! They're still hot, they're cooking in the pan. I'm gonna let them cool down and we'll serve it up. From my previous Swedish adventures here on the channel I know that Swedish people love potatoes alongside their dishes and in fact it does say to serve it with creamy mash. I made some mash potato last night but also there's something called Lingonberry sauce which you can get from Ikea. We don't have any of that but we do have cranberry. So I'm just going to serve it all up with that. Doesn't really look aesthetically pleasing does it, mashed potato, no matter what you do to it? All right, the meat balls. The sauce that I warmed up. Oh my gosh. Just let that drizzle. I'm gonna get a bit on the potato as well. Let that drizzle on there. Oh my goodness me! Look at that. Man that smells good. And I think… I don't want to offend the Swedish people too much but I hope I haven't. That's basically Swedish meatballs. I get a lot of requests for these recipes and Ikea has forced you guys to want me to do this more. Let's not just take my word for it, we have got the UK's number one under ten meatball taster, right? – Yeah. – And her coach. Let's see how authentic they are. You want to have a go? – I'm trying this meatball. – [Barry] Look at you getting right in there. – [Rebecca] Oh my goodness, Chloe. – Is that good? – Yeah. They taste like the real ones. – [Barry] They taste like the real ones? Well they should! – This is – I'm literally on my knees, finding the weird camera angles to find you guys. All good? – Very good. – I think this is our lunch now innit? – This is my second meat ball. – Is it? You enjoy it mate. (laughing) I'll leave it to the meat ball reviewer because I don't really know much Swedish things other than ABBA, Tomas Brolin and a few other Swedish footballers and Ikea really. But I love your food Swedish people, this is– – [Rebecca] Mmm. – Because I know meat balls is quite a popular dish over there and this sort of style sauce and potatoes and things but I would definitely try that out. – Mmm. – So good. If you see any other recipes like this that get released by companies you want to see me try or any sort of clones, I love doing this sort of thing. Give it a try, and I'll see you again. Bye. – Bye. – Bye. ♪ Check your level, player. ♪ ♪ No matter what your style. ♪ ♪ The kitchen's for me. ♪ ♪ Sideburns, moustache, goatee, maybe all three. ♪ (tinny rap music) – [Barry] Um, I missed it, but I dropped a meatball on the floor and these dogs are very happy all of a sudden. Did you share it? Great.

from WordPress http://sweetly.site/homemade-ikea-meatballs/

[alanjguitar]

The Best Electric Guitars For Playing in Church

When you play praise and worship music, you want to sound your best and give your all to elevating the congregation in joyous celebration.

You want to be able to stay grounded in the holy moment without worrying about your tone and tuning and your cramping hands.

You don’t need a multi-thousand dollar guitar to keep up with the rest of your rocking praise band, but it’s important that you have a reliable axe that isn’t going to slip out of tune mid-song or be so uncomfortable to play that you’re praying for salvation by the start of the second verse.

Our Recommendation

For under $500, my favorite guitar in this category is the Fender Offset Series Mustang, offering a Strat/Tele fusion tone in a vintage style body, nothing too flashy but all you need for clean, crisp chords and silky smooth solos. It trumps the Epiphone SG Special, whose strong tonal characteristics are somewhat diminished by the unreliability of the Epiphone electronics.

Overall, the number one contender on this list is the PRS SE Custom 24, in which its solid maple/mahogany construction, dual humbuckers, and sturdy tremolo are capable of a huge range of tonal variations, from soft and sweet rhythms to incredible sustain-filled solo work.

Whatever your budget, here you can find an ideal choice of the best electric guitar for worship and all other areas of your life that demand pristine performances.

The 7 Top-Rated Electric Guitars for Worship Music – Overview

#7 Epiphone SG Special

3.5/5 Star Rating

Specs

Body – Mahogany

Neck – Mahogany

Fingerboard – Indian Laurel

Electronics – 650R Humbucker neck pickup and 700T Humbucker T bridge pickup

Pros

Affordable SG model based on the Gibson original

Punchy tones for powerful performances

SlimTaper “D” neck profile for speedy riffage

Cons

Ground wire can become loose with major bumps and bangs

All mahogany muddiness inhibits crisp chords

Review

Although this is the lowest ranked guitar on this list, I’ve seen the Epiphone SG Special in the hands of several worship band guitarists, from my own church band in high school years, to my friend’s current praise band in a West Virginia megachurch, to worship services at Christian rock festivals and live-streamed praise music across the U.S.

I first fell in love with SG models after seeing School of Rock, and since then it’s remained one of my favorite electric guitars. It’s not so much something you want to use to highlight your group’s rhythm section, but when utilized correctly, in can add an immense amount of oomph and power to your band’s pre-chorus buildups.

Outside its rhythm capabilities, the SG Special is a great guitar for high end licks, with the top frets never singing shrill but rather soaring in like the precision strike of a skydiving raptor. Want to learn to get the most out of this guitar by soloing like a pro? Check out our how-to solo guide here.

The main drawback of all Epiphone electric guitars is the hastily configured electronics; a lot of the time they just don’t hold up, leaving you with the issue of crackles and pops when you turn the tone knobs, and at worst totally disabling your pickups. It’s not a problem without a fix, but you’ll need to factor in the need for electronics repairs to the overall cost of this guitar.

Nonetheless, if you’re a player on a tight budget, the Epiphone SG Special is one of the best options available to get you rocking without draining your savings.

#6 Ibanez S 521

4/5 Star Rating

Specs

Body – Meranti

Neck – Maple

Fingerboard – Jatoba

Electronics – Dual Quantum humbuckers

Pros

Super fast, thin Wizard III neck

Light meranti body reduces player fatigue

Quantum humbuckers emphasize bass response, pumping up the low and mid range tones

Cons

Nontraditional body and fingerboard woods

Susceptible to feedback due to light body construction

Lacks tone controls for separate pickups

Review

Ibanez has been one of my favorite brands since I started playing guitar, in part because I’m a huge Steve Vai fan, but mostly because their guitars are just so fast and fun to play.

The Ibanez S521 is versatile enough to perform in nearly every genre, but for worship music specifically you’ll be delighted with its treble heavy rhythm capabilities. With a bit of chorus effect on a clean tone, open chords on the S521 sing like a choir of angels.

Unless you’re in a really unusually rockish praise band, you probably won’t be doing a ton of shredding, but if the opportunity does arise, there’s no better neck to rage away on than those made Ibanez. The Wizard III neck on the S521 is sleek, slim, super fast design made with sturdy maple, great for quick riffs or comfortable chord work in any genre.

Without being too biased, I’ll mention that I like my guitars a bit on the heavier side — something to do with the denser wood imbuing a sense of higher quality. In this regard, I’m not a huge fan of the light meranti body of this Ibanez. But if you’re a smaller-framed guitarist or just someone who doesn’t want several kilos of wood weighing down your shoulders for hours at a time, you’ll find the S521 light enough to reduce fatigue yet solid enough to feel like a perfectly reliable axe. You can learn to further reduce playing fatigue with these handy tips.

#5 Squier Classic Vibe ’70s Telecaster Thinline

4.5/5 Star Rating

Specs

Body – Soft Maple

Neck – Maple

Fingerboard – Maple

Electronics – Dual Fender Wide Rang Humbuckers

Pros

Semi hollow maple body delivers beautiful full-bodied chords

All maple construction for crisp rhythms and funky leads

Dual humbuckers for crunch when you need it

Cons

Cheap tuning machines that can cause tuning slippage

Desperately needs a setup

Review

In the Under $500 range, it was hard choosing the number one spot between this Telecaster Thinline and the guitar that ultimately claimed the win. To be fair, it was really a tie.

The Squier Classic Vibe ’70s Telecaster Thinline is an amazing guitar for worship music, especially if your role in the group is the main rhythm guitarist. Its semi-hollow body sings out chords with perfect clarity and depth, sounding almost more like an extra bright acoustic than an electric guitar.

Whether your group focuses on mellow tunes or upbeat praise pop, the all maple Thinline Tele shines with a prominent voice in all playing styles. Based on Fender’s vintage 1972 Thinline model, Squier keeps it real with the lightweight body, dual humbuckers for added sonic depth, and retro style headstock and bridge. You can read about the interesting history and evolution of the Telecaster in this article by Fender.

This guitar is great for any genre ranging from totally clean sonnets to slightly dirty punk praise and has a pretty solid sound from the low to high end.

My only complaint is with the tuning machines, which can really use an upgrade. However, they’re not necessarily a deal-breaker, and if you’re feeling up to the task, changing them out yourself can add an important and useful repair skill to your guitarist toolbox.

#4 Fender Offset Series Mustang

4.5/5 Star Rating

Specs

Body – Alder

Neck – Maple

Fingerboard – Maple

Electronics – Dual Mustang single coil pickups

Pros

Crisp leads and fat rhythms in a solidly constructed rocker

Comfortable “C”-shaped neck profile for hours of fatigue-free playing

Fender Mustang single coil pickups for true sonic superiority

Cons

A bit on the heavy side for smaller players

Unusual offset body shape might be unattractive for more conventional guitarists

Review

Fender’s Mustangs are maybe more well-known as bass guitars, but that doesn’t keep the Offset Mustang electric from being one of the finest instruments you can find for under $500.

Your congregation will find nothing to bemoan in its classic Fender tone, which in the Offset Mustang falls beautifully in the middle between a Strat and Telecaster sound.

The only guitar under $500 on this list without humbucker pickups, this Fender Offset Mustang is perfect for clean rhythm work and joyful lead riffs. Its solid alder body keeps it feedback free and reduces the buzz you’d expect to encounter from dual single-coils.

The Offset Mustang was originally introduced as a short-scale beginners guitar, but over the years has come to be known as a great instrument for anyone looking for crisp tones with a comfortable playing range.

There are no major problems with this guitar at all. It’s surprisingly affordable, and can suit your needs as a guitarist both in your church performances and anywhere else the music takes you.

#3 Fender Deluxe Roadhouse Stratocaster

4/5 Star Rating

Specs

Body – Alder

Neck – Maple

Fingerboard – Maple

Electronics – 3x Vintage Noiseless Single-Coil Strat pickups

Pros

3 single coil pickups with

Super versatile tone controls including 6-way rotary switch with onboard preamp

Stable-tuning tremolo bridge for funky bends and squeals

Cons

Synthetic bone nut decreases sonic performance

Review

You might be thinking, “Geez, another Fender?” I almost am too, but for the best electric guitars for worship music they’re truly hard to beat.

That’s because Fender’s have long been known for their brightness and clarity and amazing rhythm attributes. Fender has long been one of the leading guitar manufacturers, and when you get above the $500 price point, you really start to see the scope of their quality.

The Deluxe Roadhouse Stratocaster is one of the most tonally versatile guitars I’ve seen. You can play this electric through the cheapest most basic amp and still be amazed by the range of tones you can get just with a flick of a switch and a turn of a knob.

There are three single coil pickups in the Deluxe Roadhouse, which might leave you worried about undue buzz during quieter moments. But, with the special Vintage Noiseless Fender design, they stay quiet even when you’re silently waiting through a bassline to kick in to the mix with your part.

It’s a great guitar all around, ready to rock out with clean to distorted rhythms or tear through the noise with high-vibe leads.

#2 Epiphone Les Paul Standard PlusTop Pro

4.5/5 Star Rating

Specs

Body – Mahogany with AAA Flame Maple Top

Neck – Mahogany

Fingerboard – Pau Ferro

Electronics – ProBucker-2 humbucker in the neck position and ProBucker-3 humbucker in the bridge position

Pros

Coil-tapping feature for versatile tones

True-to-form Gibson LP remake

Beautiful Flame Maple top

Cons

Tone can be a bit muddy

Review

This is one of my favorite guitars period. There aren’t many electrics available at such an affordable price with even a fraction of the quality of the Epiphone Les Paul Standard Plus Top Pro.

It barely breaks the under $500 price range, being the lowest-priced guitar in our under $1000 category, but it’s a top contender for the best guitar on this entire list.

For worship music, you’ll love the rhythms you can crank out with this Epi LP’s emphasis on the low and mid-ranges. It might not be the best guitar for bright poppy progressions due to mahogany’s inherent muddy warmth, but it fits well in the mix of any size praise group.

The coil tapping mechanism gives you a huge amount of control over your tone, essentially allowing you to turn your dual humbuckers into single coil pickups, which can help if you need to bring your brightness up a bit.

If this guitar has grabbed your attention like it did mine, you can take a look at our in-depth review of the Epiphone Les Paul Standard PlusTop Pro here.

#1 PRS SE Custom 24

5/5 Star Rating

Specs

Body – Mahogany with Beveled Maple and Flame Maple Top

Neck – Maple

Fingerboard – Rosewood

Electronics – PRS 85/15 “S” dual humbuckers

Pros

An affordable entry from PRS —  top quality at a relatively low price

Wide-thin neck profile for chord gripping power

High quality humbucking pickups with push/pull tone control and 3-way selector switch

Cons

None!

Review

Paul Reed Smith guitars don’t get a lot of mention on our site, though they certainly deserve the top-rank in a lot of reviews, with an impressive list of artists who favor the brand.

This Custom 24 is from PRS’s more affordable SE line, a high quality range of models at a price that won’t leave you wallowing in debt.

The PRS SE Custom 24 can do everything, from crystal-clear rhythmic opens, to crunchy distorted power chords, to soaring solo melodies, all with a tuning-stable tremolo bar for added fun.

It’s a super solid guitar, and you can feel the quality the moment it hits your hands. The neck is wide enough for strong chording but slim enough through the curve for lighting fast solos.

With the 3-way selector switch and tone controls for both pickups, you can adjust your voice to fit anywhere your prasie band needs you, whether that’s adding subtle bass power to clean progressions or kicking into overdrive for the bridge that brings it all home.

I can’t find a single problem with this guitar, and if it fits in your budget, I’ve got to recommend it for the best electric guitar for worship you can get your hands on.

The Final Word

As I always say, you’ve got to search within your means for the best guitar for your needs, and I’ve tried to make this list fairly wide-ranging in terms of price while maintaining a standard of quality fit for live performances.

Any of these guitars will be fine for your worship music as long as you play from the heart, no matter if you choose the lowest priced Epiphone or the built-for-pros PRS.

Stay true to yourself and your faith and your congregation will be happy to have you on stage.

Blessings to you and your music!

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