#beer oxidation

[howdoesone]

How does one properly store and age beer for optimal flavor development?

Beer is a complex and dynamic beverage that can benefit from proper storage and aging. By following a few simple guidelines, you can ensure that your beer reaches its full potential in terms of flavor, aroma, and texture. In this article, we will discuss the best practices for storing and aging beer, including temperature, light, and oxygen exposure. Continue reading Untitled

[yeyinde]

hoooooo boy. m!mc anon here - your response was extremely interesting and i am a little obsessed with your brain (i’d like to study it, you truly come up with the most delicious ideas)

but i also have to say that out of all of tf 141, that idea for soap was actually so delicious that i had to physically put my phone down for a while. respectfully, that is the hottest thing i’ve probably ever read. even more feral soap?? forcefem?? phew. amen.

thank you for giving me more material to zone out to in the middle of the day (praying hands emoji)

ahhh thanks!!! i started to drag on more about m!Reader and Johnny, but. this happened lmao. so here is some nasty Johnny picking up m!Reader in a bar.

forced!fem. switch Johnny. m!reader is described as being very masculine presenting. but in the flavour of Will Graham's whole aesthetic

All things considered, it's a little clichè.

Older man (—ish, you amend mentally, remembering the birth year on his driver's license when you chanced a peek over his forearm as he rifled through his wallet: 1982—millenial) hits on a younger man in a crowded sports bar. Opens the conversation with haven't seen you around here before, and let's the defined chisel in his jawline do the heavy lifting in place of a personality. Adds a wink to that line, too.

Thighs pressed tight against each other on the stool. Arms brushing. Speaks purposefully when it gets rowdy so he has to lean in close, stubbled jaw grazing your cheek as he mock whispers his lacklustre response to a question you didn't ask. Buys you beer. The expensive kind, too. Laughs when you ask what he's drinking and orders something that makes him seem like he's more of a man than you are.

For a brief period between intermissions—when it gets quieter and he conveniently sneaks off to the washroom—you debate picking up the heavy innuendos he's trying to put down. It could be worse, you think, staring at the only other potential lay you've been entertaining over the last two weeks.

You could be getting mediocre sex from a guy who keeps sending you unasked for pictures of his cock and hole. One you keep dodging by adding an appropriately enthused wow, all this and it's only 10am on a Tuesday to every "yep, that's a dick" image he sends in place of a real conversation.

The sarcasm gifting you yet another unasked for picture of his hand around his cock. Sure is, baby. But—

"be better if ye were 'ere wit' me."

You startle, phone cracking off the edge of the counter. "Shit—"

The person over your shoulder peels away for a moment. "Ah, sorry. Ack—is yer phone alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," you breathe, tapping on the screen. It flicks on. You're graced with another picture of his ballsack. The caption—

"need yer cock s'fuckin' bad—"

You cut him a sharp glance over your shoulder. It's rude. You're a little annoyed at having your travesty of a sex life aired out for every obnoxious wannabe cowboy to overhear, but the irritation is stemmed by the fill of liquid hazel—and flecks of blue, you think; a pretty blue ring around oxidizing copper.

Larimar. Marbled with umber. Framed around glossy white streaked with small rivers of red. Tinged slightly yellow—undoubtedly from the pack of cigarettes you find stuffed into the breast pocket of his red, gingham button down when you tear your eyes away from him. The look too intense. Too much.

Taking stock of everything else about him is just as flustering. The gingham draped loosely over him. Wrinkled sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Collar opened until the last few buttons around his navel. He's wearing a black shirt beneath that glues to his skin, pulling taut around his sternum and collarbones. A gold chain with a thick, heavy cross sits in the valley between, swinging when he rocks back on his heels.

Thick thighs stuffed into jeans that stretch to fit. The bottoms tucked half-heartedly into a pir of black, leather boots.

The shirt shifts when he moves, pulling tight around his broad shoulders as he lifts the last swig of a beer bottle to his lips. Beneath the coarse, black hair that dusts over the pale, peachy skin of his forearms, the back of his hands, his knuckles (Jesus Christ), his muscles flex. Bunching tight under veined flesh.

It makes sense to follow the trail to those sucking lips, but you catch a flash of pale pink, the sweep of a blood-red tongue through the hazy brown of the translucent rim of the bottle and feel your heart lurch in your chest.

You try to swallow but your throat is dry.

He makes a noise as he drinks. A sucking slurp, the plop of his lips unglueing from of the mouth of the bottle. A quiet, groaning ahh whispered under his breath.

It pulls your eyes up, forcing you to fill in the rest of this puzzle, and you know, even before the same dense cropping of hair that covers his arms (hands, fingers) starts to show at the black hem of his Henley that you made a mistake. A grievous one. He's handsome.

Defined jaw. Implish lips. An angular nose. Thick, full brows. The same pale, peachy skin sloping up his neck, chin, cheeks, and forehead before disappear into dark brown, almost black, hair. An untrimmed mohawk. A scar on the side of his head, cutting clean along his temple and stretching back to his ear. The hair around it is sparse. Shaved. The gorge of his scar a dark pink inside. Healed, but—

Raw.

A little like the rest of him. Rougish, in a way. Fractured.

His hair is matted down on top. Toussed along the unblemished, overgrown side, but flat on his crown.

The mystery, however, is solved when he flicks a ballcap onto the table beside you with a crooked quirk of his mouth. All teeth. White, sharp.

The man slips into the stool your date was occupying with a sniff, the smooth ridge of his nose bunching up. Displeasure drapes itself over his expression, a little rumple in his brow. "Screamin' Jesus. Dunno wha's thicker. His cologne or his come-ons."

The barb is unexpected. You try to hide your snort behind a grimace, rubbing the tip of your nose with a rough finger. He catches it, though. The pinch in his brow smoothing out as he grins wide, vicious.

Your heart lunches. Stutters uncomfortably in your chest. "You watchin' me or something?"

He turns in the seat, knee bumping into your thigh. Crowding you easily as he folds over the tabletop, elbow dropping to the table with a muted thud. His cheek slides into his palm, head tilting as he considers your words. The implication.

And then he grins wider. "Or somethin'."

Cocky. You scoff, but it just makes him look more amused.

"Tha' yer type?"

"Hmm?"

He motions to the nearly untouched glass of whiskey in front of him. Then to your phone.

"All talk," he enunciates each word, letting his accent pull taut around the syllables. "An' no action."

"No action? You don't think buying me beer and sending dick pics, begging for a fuck, is no action?"

"Aye—" he reaches for the beer he placed down beside his cap, and takes a generous swallow as you pretend the shift in his throat isn't making you a little light headed. He peels away with a grunt. "Ah do."

"Yeah?" You scoff, bringing the nozzle to your mouth to quench the ache in your throat. The soft preen coiling in your chest. Stupid words like, so what about it, pretty boy? wanna take me home. "What would you do instead?"

"I'd split yer pussy open on my cock in the loo. Let everyone in this bar hear ye moanin' fer me—"

You choke, barely have time to put the bottle down before you're haccking into your fist. He has the decency to pat your back as you wheeze.

"Ain't got a pussy," is what you settle for after a beat, voice hoarse. Wrecked. The way he shudders at the sound is unmistakable. Your neck feels hot. Itchy.

"Oh, sure ye do," he leans in close, warm breath fanning over your cheek. "A nice, tight little pussy fer me to fuck—"

"I'm a man." You feel a little stupid saying it. As if any part of you could be mistaken for slight. For soft. Feminine. You work with your hands. Grew up in the backcountry. Fishing before you could talk. Chewing tobacco before you hit puberty. Your old man made sure to pound that notion into your head before you even know what it meant to be a child. "I don't know what kinda games you're playing, but—"

"ahm no' playin' games," he shrugs, leaning back. It gives the idea of space. Distance. But his hand finds its way your denim-clad thigh, nails skimming the inside seam of your jeans wear the material is softer, worn down from friction. Too high to be appropriate.

You should move. Snap at him to take it off. Growl the words out if you have to do.

(Punch him, maybe. But he looks like the sort who would like that too much, you think. Rough. Dirty. Not afraid to fight back with his teeth if he needs to.

come on, baby, hit me harder—)

Your knee jerks. His grip tightens. "I got a cock. Not a pussy."

He makes a face at that. His full bottom lip juts out, angling to the side in confusion. "Ah ken? Ahm plannin' on ridin' that cock tonight, aye. The one yer little date is so desperate fer—"

"Jesus—" you wheeze, cock thickening in your jeans. Men aren't—

They're not usually so forward with you. It's nudging innuendos. Beer. A whispered wanna get outta here when the bar is about close and no one else is around to see it. You know what you look like. And it's not—

Soft.

"Easy," he taunts, grinning. "Don't choke so soon. 'aven't even go' ma cock out—"

You're not entertaining this. Absolutely not. He's—

Well. You're not sure what he is, but he's not normal. Not right. And you're not that desperate.

(maybe)

But the words die in your throat when his bright eyes glance down at your empty bottle, a frown forming over his pretty, pink lips like you not having anything to drink right away was somehow the most inconvenient thing to him.

"Get ye a drink?"

"Sure," you say, nodding. Then: "thanks."

It's softer. Gritty. The word scrapes over your throat in a way that almost hurts.

You blame it on the beer you drank before. Sloshing around your empty stomach and making you feel wildly off-kilter. Tipsy, maybe. Too drunk. Vulnerable to kindness (however threadbare it might be) when you usually get lewd pictures and beer you didn't ask for.

He flags the bartender down with a flick of his wrist. Keeps his eyes listed toward you as he leans over the counter, whispering something in his ear that you can't hear. Unease knots in your stomach. Cold fingers linking together, pressing frigid knuckles to your soft lining.

You look away when he drops back into his seat, hand finding its way back to your thigh. Gripping tight. Possessive. It curls around you. His warmth, his touch. The smell of him—sweet wheat, lemongrass; something earthy, like the damp, wet scent of mid-autumn; maple leaves stuck to the pavement after a late night rain shower—and you breathe slowly through your nose, both eager for the smell and sick of it. Sweet maple. Tart pumpkin. Your fingers twitch. You fold them into fists, glancing down at the spread of his hand on you.

His knuckles are red. Blotchy. Raw. The skin on his middle finger is cut across the wrinkled folds of his joint. The knick is deep. Almost a circle if not for the way it tears on the side, streaking outward. The outer edges of the crater are white. The inside pink before it turns to a deep red in the middle. Clotting already.

Your tongue feels like lead in your mouth. Unhinging your jaw takes more effort than you can expend, and you pant, a little, when your mouth finally pries apart. The words thicken on your tongue.

What happened—

The bartender comes back, his shadow falling over the counter. You jerk your head up, blinking at him as he places something down in front of you.

Something pink.

You swallow again. "Uh, what's this?"

"Sex on the Beach," the man answers, waving the bartender off. "Pretty drink fer pretty little thing."

"You wanna get punched? Because this is how you get your teeth knocked out—"

"Oh, baby," he purrs, accent rolling over the words in a way that goes straight to your cock. "If that's what yer intae, ah don't mind gettin' a little bloody fer ye. Might make suckin' yer pretty little cock easier."

Little. Your throat aches. Your mouth is dry. The beer is gone, cleaned empty bottles cleaned up by the bartender. Trying to swallow only makes the sting in your throat more prominent and does little to relieve the burn.

In front of you, the pink drink sits mockingly. Beads of condensation drip down the glass.

It's not even the stupid implication of a man drinking a cocktail that keeps you from reaching for it, but the fact that he ordered it for you with that in mind. Pretty drink fer a pretty—

Your throat clicks. Flesh glueing together when you swallow. Peeling away painful when you breathe.

Fuck it, you think. It doesn't mean anything. Not to you. Not at all.

When you reach for it, his head jerks over to you. Staring, unabashedly, as you bring it your lips and take a sip.

He groans. The hand on your thigh tightens. "Good girl."

It heats you up. Buzzes in the back of your head. You should get out of here. Leave. Go home and sink your head into your pillow, squeeze your eyes shut until all these terrifying feelings are snuffed out. Smothered. Tucked back into a box you didn't realise you had—

"Wanna come home wit' me? Let me fuck yer pretty pussy until I cum?"

The swell of anticipation in your chest makes you flinch. "I told you—"

"Ye want it, don't ye?" His hand moves higher up your leg, bleeding warmth through the denim. "Want me to make fuck ye. Make ye cum around ma cock. Bet ye have th' sweetest little cunt—"

"Fuck—" you shiver. His word wrap around your hindbrain, a soft touch that makes you feel hot. Itchy. Your heart pounds. You wonder if he can hear it. "I don't—"

"Gonnae let me taste it. Sit tha' pretty arse on ma face, aren't ye? Ride me until ye cum."

"I can't—" you force the words out of your throat, feeling the scrape against the soft tissue inside until it hurts. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but—"

"ahm tryin' tae take a pretty girl home—" girl. Girl. You shudder, feeling sick. Nauseous. "'ave her spread her pretty legs fer me..." he leans in, lips brushing your warm cheeks. "Let me ride that pretty cock until she cums—"

"Stop it—"

His hand finds your cock, thick in your jeans. Pressing tight against the zipper. "Gonnae fuck me so good, aren't ye? Not gonnae let ye cum unless it's inside me—"

"You're—ah, fuck—" his hand rubs over your bulge, eyes hooded, heavy, as you twitch. A wet spot grows, dark and unmistakable against the cool blue denim. "A—anyone ever tell you that you're kind of a freak?"

"an' yer a messy girl—" another pulse. The patch grows. It shouldn't turn you on. This sort of talk—it's not something you've ever been interested in before. Ever tried. Outside of porn—big, barrel chested men crushing another in their arms, growling about how they're gonna knock them up—it never surfaced. Never reared. "Gonnae let me clean ye up?"

You should say no.

It's on the tip of your tongue. No, leave me alone. Get the fuck off of me. Say that shit to me every again, and I'll—

His hand slides up, fingers curling over your clothed cock in a way that knocks the thoughts from your head, leaving nothing behind but an empty space. An ache. An itch. Something that needs to be filled.

Your phone chimes. Another text. You don't have to look down to know what it is, but his hand slides over, fingers dropping to the sleek, black surface. He pulls it to him with the pads of his index and middle finger. You should stop him. Grab it back. Leave—

"Need yer thick cock inside o'me," he narrates, mouth ticking up in a terrifying smirk. All teeth. A dogtoothed grin. "Now, there's a thought."

He dips his chin, tongue poking out from between his lips as he types something back in response. You can't see what it is from this angle, but the pinch in his brow, the glimmer in his eyes—you're sure this guy, potential candidate; looming mediocre lay, will have you blocked in five minutes. When he glances back, a tendril of something darkly satisfied brimming in the amber of his eyes, you amend it to right now.

You huff. "Shouldn't take things that don't belong to you."

The man stares at you for a moment, the corners of his eyes creasing in that same soot-stained amusement he had when he ruined your chances with the too-pink tip of his tongue hanging out. Satisfied dog. It's unnerving.

You think it scares you.

Or—

It should.

Whatever he finds as he fossicks through the fragments of your shattering composure, it seems to make him purr. His pupils expand. His nostrils flare. He leans in again, and you taste ash on your tongue. "M'ready tae leave."

It's not a question. The with you rings out like a gunshot in the back of your head.

You should say no. It's been on the tip of your tongue this whole time. No. No. Leave me alone. Go away—

But each time you try to pry apart your clenched jaws to say it, the look in his eyes make you think dogs and their bones.

You swallow this rancid thing in the back of your throat down. Make a jerking movement with your shoulder—a shrug, maybe. The twitch of your aching cock gives you away.

"C'mon, wannae fuck tha' little pussy o'yers," he rasps, words a tangled growl in the thick of his throat. Accent eliding. Slurring together. "Or ah'll have tae drag ye back tae the bathroom. Fuck ye in the shall. Make yer pussy cum on ma cock—"

You shiver. It's disgust. It's anger. It's—

His hand peels away from your thigh, reaches for your phone. He leans toward, and shoves it into the back of his pocket.

"what ahm I gonnae do tae ye?"

You know what he asking for. Feel the heat smoulder inside of your veins, burning up your neck. Be a man, you think. Be a man. Tell him to fuck off. Punch him. There's nothing soft about you. Nothing delicate. He's crazy. You're not—

His stare is paralyzing. You feel dread thicken in your stomach.

(dread, you think; your cock jerks. The front of your jeans are damp. The sticky drag of them on your groin calls you a liar.)

"Ahm no' askin' again, hen."

Your jaw unlocks easy this time. Opening with a quivering sigh that makes him groan low under his voice, eyes fixed on you. Drilling holes into your head. Needling his warped desire into your mind.

"You're gonna," your voice shakes. Heat sears your skin. It feels you're going to melt. "You're gonna fuck my—my pussy—"

The noise he makes is sinful. Liquid. Rich. A groan that breaks into a thrilling moan. Your stomach knots. Churns. You'd be sick if you had more to drink.

"C'mon—" he jerks his head toward the door, eyes blazing. "Gonnae ye exactly what ye need."

You go. Stand when he does, chin dropping to your chest in humiliation when your cock jerks at the idea. Sliding your jacket off your shoulders, holding it in your trembling fists as it covers your pelvis. The unmistakable need there for everyone to see.

Fuck yer pussy so good, he growls, ripping his wallet open and shoving a fistful of neat, straight notes on the counter. "Ain't gonnae need anythin' else when ahm done wit' ye. Gonnae be beggin' fer my cock inside ye—"

You should run. And when he steps back, motioning for you to move first, it feels like he's giving you the perfect opportunity to escape. To flee. You want to. You should.

But you don't. Something holds you back. Makes your teeth sink into your tongue. Jaw hinging shut. Snuffing out the words rotting in the back of your throat with a swallow.

You follow him quietly as he paws at you, rutting his cock against your thigh, whispering in your ear about all the terrible things he's doing to do. A better, more sensible man would've run, something holds you back.

The same thing that makes you ignore the reason why you haven't asked about his bloodied knuckles or wondered where your date is.

You know the answer already, don't you?

"Ahm gonnae fuck ye so good, hen. Won't be thinkin' about anyone else when ahm done wit' ye—"

It's what you've been looking for since the beginning.

[0v3rcast]

Gnaw (3)

(Warnings: Blood, Violence, Body Horror)

When you wake, you are starving. It feels like someone's torn out your stomach and left a yawning cavern inside of you that threatens to make you collapse in on yourself in a desperate attempt to fill the void.

You cannot think through the sheer ravenousness of this hunger. Morals and principles have dissolved under the infinite maw within that threatens to consume you.

You stand shakily, eyes darting around as you search for even the faintest hint to the location of nearby food.

And then you see it. The most beautiful thing you've ever laid eyes on.

A sparrow.

Your mouth begins to water at the thought of meat. Pork, beef, fowl, venison, mutton? It's food.

You creep towards it, vision already tunneling, and prepare to lunge. In a burst of movement, you blitz towards the unaware bird and your hand clamps down on it like a vice.

It is at this point that another, more sane person would kill the animal and dress it for cooking. You are not that person right now.

You stuff the bird into your mouth and begin to chew. You don't particularly give a shit if it's alive right now, you're starving.

You bravely ignore the way it sounds like the world's most morbid popcorn.

Blood hits your tongue. It's the most brilliant thing you've ever tasted. There is no tang of iron or bitterness. There is just warmth that flows through your veins like a wildfire inside you.

If anything, you feel a little high.

Perhaps, in another time, the thought of consuming another living being might have turned your stomach. Maybe you'd sworn off meats at all in favor of something less cruel.

You aren't at the pilot seat right now. There is an animal there, sating the most primal urge in existence - to live.

For a moment, though, let's step away from your perspective, and instead talk about what's happening to you.

From the moment you came to Teyvat, dormant bits of your biology have been returning to function now that there is elemental energy to sustain them.

Those parts will rewrite your genetic code to restore you to godhood.

Right now, however, you are in a rather malleable state - not quite human anymore, but not quite divine.

Luckily for you, there are options other than waiting.

Everything on this planet has a trace of what you were in it. Every being, every plant, every animal, every stone, and every speck of dust has an itty bitty bit of you in the form of elemental energy. And you can reclaim it.

By dying, you've been taking back the energy from the strikes used to end you.

By eating, you absorb the elemental energy inside the food.

You, much like the allogenes, have some limits to break, each step bringing you closer to the next 'star'.

You've just reached the first one. Congratulations.

All of a sudden, you feel like, well, a new person. It's as though you've woken up from the aftereffects of a really shitty nap and banished the grogginess.

You are awake in a way you weren't, and suddenly, the world just feels sharper.

(In a separate dimension, the elements of Teyvat cheer. You're one step closer to taking this place back from your poor imitation.)

Unbeknownst to you, attacking you has had consequences for Mondstadt.

Their wine is vinegar now. It's as if someone's mixed every last drop of booze with lots and lots of fresh air.

Oops.

Beer? Gone. That's just trash now. Oxidation wrecks the flavor in that, too.

Stored meat has been rotting, plants are wilting on the vine, animals birth nothing. The clouds have parted, and a miserably hot sun has decided to cheerily bake the faces of every single human being in Mondstadt.

The winds do not blow. There is no breeze.

(The only person not feeling like they've stepped into an oven is Eula, who is beginning to suffer the effects of hypothermia.

She killed you, and now Cryo is going to punish her by not regulating the energy they push into her Vision. She will slowly freeze to death and feel every cell of her body dying from cold unless she grovels at your feet.

Cryo - an ancient, inhuman element as old as this universe - thinks this is a rather lenient punishment and not an excruciating torture. You will likely need to teach them otherwise when you reclaim your throne.)

Prayers in Mondstadt have doubled and maybe even tripled. Sacrifices of food can't be given, so instead, they're offering Mora. Piles and piles of coins now give your shrines a stately golden glow under the light of the vicious sun.

For the first time in centuries, Venti takes to his knees and prays.

You are not there to hear their begging for clemency.

And as a god, you never particularly thought you'd need an answering machine, so it's not like the prayers get saved.

(This is the first time since your creation of Teyvat that the elements have put their squabbles aside and the first time they've worked together to make a group of people absolutely miserable, and honestly? They're having a great time.)

You've been running around this beach for a while, laughing happily as you enjoy your newfound strength and stamina.

You can skip a rock fifteen times before it sinks. That's pretty dope. You didn't even know you got the technique down so perfectly until now.

A strange pressure builds in your head and you begin to have a vision. Not the kind you wear on your person, and grants you elemental powers - the kind where you have an out-of-body experience and See Some Shit.

Before you stands a tall, androgynous figure. They're dressed in comfy clothes that lack any regional indicator of origin. If anything, the style reminds you of clothing from Earth.

Hell, they just look like someone that probably would have belonged to your old world. The reason you know who they are is their eyes and the symbol where a pupil would normally be.

They give you a crooked grin, face brightening just a tiny bit as they offer a hand to shake.

"Hello again, Great Maelstrom. I think it's time you and I reconnected, hm?"

((Taglist of lovely people:

@the-dumber-scaramouche

@thatdeadaquarius

@ssak-i

@imyme20

@fried-lotud

@acacla

@itz-luna

@iruiji

@crierofirony

@itsredactedlove

@sweetsthetik

@leafanonsforest

@kkazuyass

@featuredtofu

@oxyotl (whose name I misspelled in my taglist notes as 'oxylotl', like some kind of oxygen axolotl)

Apologies to @galaxy-batsy-world, it refuses to let me tag you. Do you have a different @?))

[mistydeyes]

tuberose and rose tinted glasses

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summary: A work trip to France lands you in a bar in Grasse. But it's the actions of a masked British man that puts him next to you with brandy in your hands.

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader

warnings: swearing, harassment

a/n: literally writing this on my lunch break, pining over the idea of taking a trip to grasse and submerging myself in their fields of jasmine

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

Grasse, France the world's capital of perfume. As you walked the late-night streets filled with fragrant, floral air, you couldn't help but feel melancholy that you were here on business and not for pleasure. Your head flooded with the smells of the city as you noted the various notes of tuberose and jasmine as you walked. Despite your frequent trips here, you still fell in love with the rows of flowers in peak bloom.

Your heels clicked on the ground as you saw a red awning with the letterings of a bar on it. You sought refuge after a long day of discussing new fragrances with your colleagues and creating the perfect blend for another company.

You pushed the doors open and sat at one of the velvet cushioned seats in the dimly lit place. As you patted the soft fabric with your fingertips, you admired how the bar was lit with a warm rose light. You noted only a small amount of patrons in the place. It looked to be only you, the bartender, and maybe three other men in this entire pink atmosphere. However, you paid them no mind as the bartender approached you.

"Qu’est-ce que je vous sers?” ("What can I get you?") He said, giving you a moment to comprehend what he was saying. You couldn't blame him, you were far from a stereotypical French woman. Maybe it was the way you carried yourself or just looked so typically American that tipped him off to your presence. However, your years working with your company and traveling from the US to France made you thankfully bilingual in the romantic language.

Just as he was about to ask the answer in English, you responded, "Je prends un un verre d'Armagnac Aristocrat, s’il vous plaît." ("I'll have a glass of Armagnac Aristocrat please.") Your clientele had refined your tastes. Never one for wine, you preferred a strong drink to accompany you.

"Fille chanceuse, je viens d'ouvrir une bouteille pour le monsieur là-bas," ("Lucky girl, I just opened a bottle for the gentleman over there") he replied and signaled to a man also sitting alone on the far side of the bar. Unknowingly, this man had luckily ordered a bottle of the spirit and allowed for your drink to be served immediately, the Armagnac being perfectly oxidized in the French air. The man in question was broad and had his head down. As the rose light illuminated his figure, he seemed more interested in his drink than the atmosphere around him. His eyes looked concentrated on the caramel liquid in his glass. You wondered what his full expression was as, despite his eyes, his face was primarily obstructed by a black mask.

Your eyes left the man as the bartender gently set your drink down on a scarlet napkin. "Merci," you said gently and he left you to enjoy your purchase. As you sipped on your drink, you savored the smokiness of the brandy coupled with the sharp bitterness of the Lillet. You swallowed the liquid, enjoying the subtle sweetness of the ginger ale. This was a drink to be sipped, not greedily drank as you enjoyed how the flavors came together to create a perfect beverage. You gently traced your fingers on the edge of the glass and smeared your reddened lipstick on its rim.

However, your moment of solace would soon be interrupted by a man who took an abrupt seat next to you. You could tell by the way he was swaying and leaning on the counter that he had one too many. He smelled like cheap cologne, probably something he bought as a souvenir and beer.

"Ma chérie, tu es very sexy" ("My darling, you are very sexy") the man leered over you. You couldn't help but roll your eyes. His poor mixing of French and English made you feel embarrassed for him. He acted like this was the epitome of flirtation and almost expected you to throw yourself on him.

You attempted to ignore the man, turning your body away and protectively hovering over your drink. He was determined, grabbing your shoulder to face him. "You smell expensive, tell me do you put your perfume where you want to be kissed?" he spoke sultry in another crude attempt at flirting.

"Not interested," you said, waving your arm in a dismissive motion. You just wanted to enjoy a night with some liquor and the smells of the town. Your gold bracelets clanked as you brushed him away. However, they soon clattered together as he aggressively grabbed your wrist.

"Oh so you speak English, sweetheart," he began, breathing his hot alcohol-laced breath in your face. "Lucky for you, I can speak French between your legs," he finished as you tried to free yourself from his grip. You pushed against his chest and elbowed him but he was relentless. Your eyes looked wildly around as you tried to receive any help, but seemingly the bar had emptied and the bartender was nowhere to be found. "C'mon sweetheart, let me show you a good time," he said and pressed harder on your wrist. Your arm pricked with pain from his grip. Suddenly his hands were pried off of you and he was thrown back.

You turned to see it was the man from across the bar, now standing next to you and glaring at the downed man. "She politely said 'fuck off, asshole', do you understand that?" he barked at him in a deep voice. The drunk man looked ready for a fight as he stood up. But something about the masked man's aura made him rescind. As quick as he came, the drunkard left. He ceremoniously flipped him off and with a string of profanities, exited the bar in a huff.

"Thank you," you said and motioned for the man to take a seat, "I think I owe you a drink." He briefly glanced over to where he sat and you both saw the empty glass. "Looks like you need a refill, anyways," you remarked. It seemed like he agreed as he took a seat to your right.

You signaled to the bartender, who for some reason had not acknowledged the entire fiasco that just occurred. He came over and you asked, "Un autre de ceux-ci pour moi et le monsieur," ("Another one of these for myself and the gentleman") and pointed to your dwindling glass. He nodded and went behind the counter to prepare both your liquid vices.

"So what brings you to Grasse? You don't seem like a Frenchman to me," you asked turning to face your new companion. In the bar's lighting, you could see him slightly better than before. His light eyelashes glistened in the light and contrasted with his amber eyes. You also noticed how his face mask had some kind of skull design painted on it.

"Business," he answered plainly, a man of few words you presumed. Somehow when he spoke, you were comforted by the smell of cigarettes on his lips and hints of brandy as they mixed in the air. "Me as well, but I always love coming here," you sighed. The bartender quietly came back with your drinks and you cheered the mysterious man next to you.

After savoring the liquor for a few moments he sparked up another conversation. "What is this? It's strong but good," he asked. "An Armagnac Aristocrat, bitter orange Lillet Blanc, and smokey Armagnac topped with a refreshing, crisp serving of ginger ale. C'est manifique" ("It's magnificent") you finished and gently placed the chill crystal glass on your bruised wrist.

"Well that is quite a description, I would guess you have these a lot," he joked and you could see the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiled. "I'm a perfumer, my whole life is based on knowing the key elements to an ingredient and being able to illustrate it for others," you replied, practically telling your life story to this stranger.

After another long string of minutes, he spoke up again. "Makes sense why you're here, beautiful city," he said quietly. "Yes, it is. If you ever get a chance, a perfume tour would be worth your while." With that, he shook his head slightly and you knew this was a way of saying he was on his way out of the town.

"Next time, love, I appreciate the recommendation though." Maybe it was the inclusion of the nickname but you picked up on his British accent. London you thought, maybe Manchester, regardless it was as intoxicating as the liquor that was warming your insides.

As the time waned on, you ordered another drink. This time it was his recommendation, a Brandy Smash. Feeling slightly tipsy you joked, "Mhmm, I can taste the smokiness of the Armagnac with a subtle hint of cooling mint leaves and the sweet tang of sugar and lemon."

"And I would've thought perfumers are only good for the sense of smell," he replied. With his mask pulled up to his nose, you could see how beautiful his smile was. As you talked, his rosy lips formed into a calming curve and you could see some silvery scars dance in the bar's overhead light.

"I'm much more than that-" you stopped short. You realized after two hours of talking about yourself, you had not even asked his name. He noticed your hesitation and replied, "It's Simon."

Simon, meaning 'to listen' you thought to yourself, what a perfect name for a man who let you occupy his time with botanicals and knowledge of scents. "I'm Y/N," you said, "And thank you, Simon. This has been a perfect evening," you smiled gently.

"Yes it has, a perfect evening with perfect drinks," he replied and clinked his glass with yours. As he finished his drink, he slowly prepared to leave. He signaled the bartender over and you both paid your respective tabs. As he adjusted his jacket, something about Simon made you want to see him again. Maybe it was his chiseled features or his attentiveness to your words but whatever it was, it made you gently place a hand on his arm.

"I know this is a little forward but mind if I give you my number? Maybe I'll run into you here again or stateside?" you asked, preparing for rejection. This chance encounter was a plot device in movies, almost too good to be true. "Sure, love. Let's find you a pen," he said and pushed a napkin toward you.

"Puis-je avoir un stylo s'il vous plaît?" ("Can I have a pen, please?") you asked to the bartender who was polishing glasses. He slid one over to you and you wrote on the small red napkin you had been given. As you wrote on the napkin, you could feel Simon's eyes on you. He knew you were writing more than just a number based on the various lines written on the cloth.

You finished writing and leaned forward towards him, gently tucking the red item into his jacket pocket. If you had been any closer, you might have heard his rapid heartbeats and quickened breath. "Au revoir, Simon," you said and saw yourself to your hotel for the night, savoring the smell of jasmine and lavender in the air.

Simon took the napkin out of his pocket, the color reminding him of your sanguine cheeks and burgundy lipstick. His calloused fingers gently held the note as he read, "Pleasure to meet you, Simon. Thank you for listening and sharing a drink. Just a recommendation but a refined man like you should try, Gentleman by Givenchy. Until we meet again," followed by your number. He too walked out of the bar to embrace the late-night air. But as he walked the quiet streets, he now had a new appreciation for the intoxicating scents of Grasse.

[hey-august]

I'm comin' apart at the seams | (Buggy x OC)

Ahhhhh, this is a birthday gift for @rorywritesjunk 🎁 I hope you like it even though it's not birthday-themed.

I chose Sunny because she's just the sweetest and I thought she'd fit this story well. I'm sure she's ooc, but I hope I captured her spirit. 🩷

Word count: ~1.8k

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x OC, buggy x sunny!!, fem OC, mentions of PIV sex, dadbod buggy

(Presumptive tag for @paperclippedmime since you were curious about the apples 👀)

Title from "Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes" by Fall Out Boy

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Something was wrong. Something has been wrong. And Buggy wasn’t sure how much longer he could hide it from Sunny. It started small. An extra shimmy to pull on his pants. A deep exhale to reach the usual notch on his belt. Unbuttoning his pants after a big meal. Then his shirts felt a little snug. Pulling on the sleeves and the bottom hem would help, but only for so long. Soon, he couldn’t tighten his belt to the same spot. The problem was growing.

Sunny made such tasty food, it was hard for Buggy to decline. Not only was the pirate addicted to his wife’s cooking, but to the smile she’d bestow when he complimented her skills. Treats came with a kiss on the cheek. Snacks were ready when his stomach grumbled. She’d set out a pastry with his morning coffee. Sunny always knew what Buggy was in the mood for before he knew. And it was always delicious.

Buggy stared at himself in the full length mirror, twisting and turning to assess the full extent of his indulgences. Was his rear always that round? Was the belly pooch new? He poked his stomach, wondering what was from years of yeasty beer and rum and what was from married life. Regardless of where the excess came from, Buggy was resolved to get rid of it before Sunny noticed.

He started by waking up before her. As the sun started to crest the horizon, Buggy would slip out of bed bit by bit and limb by limb. It was tedious, but the slow retreat kept the bed from shifting too much and allowed Sunny to stay wrapped in sleep. Once out of bed, Buggy would jog around the deck with a deep scowl on his face - a warning that anyone else awake at this hour should keep their mouth shut. He’d keep an eye on the sun’s journey and sneak back into the room just in time for Sunny to roll over and assume her husband had also just woken up and gotten out of bed.

The morning excursions weren’t enough, though, and Buggy was worried that Sunny would notice. That she would think Buggy is letting himself go. That she could do better than some chubby clown. The ache from that possible future pushed the pirate to do something he never dreamed of doing - turning down some of Sunny’s treats. The morning pastry would be ripped half to share with Sunny, even when it was his favorite one dusted in powdered sugar. (He’d still lick the sugar off his fingers, though.) Buggy would only take a bite of what Sunny would offer him and go on a tangent about how it was too good and he wanted to save space to eat it later.

Buggy might have gotten away with it all if it wasn’t for the apples. The goddamn apples.

Sunny stared at the uneaten food left on Buggy’s desk. It was a small plate with one of his favorite snacks - apple slices and peanut butter. And he didn’t take a single bite. Sunny knew her husband usually got hungry around this time of day. He hadn’t been eating well recently, so she made it look extra enticing. She peeled some of the bright red skin, leaving behind little shapes that made the slices look like bunnies. They were placed in a circle, facing the spoonful of peanut butter smeared on the center of the plate. What were once happy grazing bunnies were now oxidized bits of fruit surrounding an oily lump of ground nuts.

Footsteps entered the room behind her and Sunny turned to see Buggy. All the emotions and thoughts swirling through her burst out in one confused and upset question.

“Do you not like me anymore?”

Sunny usually wasn’t the one to carry the self-doubt in this relationship. She held the other end of that rope, doting on Buggy and reminding him of her love. But weeks of her husband sneaking away every morning, turning down the food she made him, not wanting to bathe with her, and pulling away when all she wanted was a hug had worn her down. Sunny felt raw and exposed. She felt like a forgotten apple slice.

The question wasn’t answered with words, but an embrace. Buggy wrapped his arms around her, placed a hand on the back of her head, and held her close. This was what Sunny would do whenever Buggy spouted similar fears.

“Why would you ever think that?” He asked her the same question she asked him.

“You didn’t eat your snack, Buggy.” 

“I just forgot about it.” Buggy followed the fib by popping a soggy apple bunny in his mouth. “That can’t be the only reason, is it?”

Sunny shook her head against his chest, listening to the conflicted voices in her head. One told her to stop now and just enjoy the moment and enjoy the hug. The other told her that this wasn’t enough. Deciding both were right, Sunny wrapped her arms around Buggy’s waist and squeezed. She felt Buggy stiffen and try to pull away, but she held him tighter until her arms began to burn with the effort.

“No, not yet. I feel like you’ve been avoiding me,” Sunny finally confessed against his chest.

Buggy pried himself from Sunny’s hold before responding. “Never! I always want to be near you. In fact, you’re the one that banned me from the kitchen that one time.”

“You sneak out of bed early every morning.” Sunny felt a little bit of satisfaction watching the color drain from the unpainted parts of his face. “Babe, you're everywhere when you sleep. We're always touching, of course I’m going to notice when you leave, no matter how clever you think you’re being.”

Buggy opened his mouth to respond, but Sunny grabbed his hands and kept going. “Honestly, I don’t mind if you have secrets. You should have your own things, Buggy, but this feels like it involves me. Is there anything that I should know?”

“I don’t want you to leave me. I don’t want you to realize that I’m not good enough for you and then you go and find a better, more sexy pirate husband, who dresses well and wears glasses and his clothes fit…” The words exploded out of Buggy’s mouth, squeezed by the anxiety wrapped around him. He tugged at the stomach of his shirt, trying to alleviate some of the constricting feeling.

The words continued even when Sunny tried to stop them with her lips. The flow only ceased when Sunny held his face in her hands, pulling his gaze to her own.

“Buggy, I already have a sexy pirate husband. I don’t want a different one.”

“R-really? Even if…?”

“Even if what? I love you as you are.” Sunny’s words were just like her. Warm, comforting, and honest. Lingering doubts that couldn’t be eased away with words, were soothed with actions later that evening. 

Buggy sat on the edge of his desk with Sunny’s fingers tangled in his hair. Tugging his head back, she trailed kisses down his neck. Airy groans buzzed under her lips until she reached the collar of his shirt. Rather than waiting for him to disrobe, Sunny kept going. Running her hands along his soft stomach, through the hair on his chest, and back down to the hem of the shirt so she could pull it off. 

Any protests from Buggy were kept at bay with more kisses and nips, anything to keep his mouth occupied with something other than words. Once the shirt was off, the kisses traveled down to adorn his chest and decorate the stomach he still felt sensitive about. Sunny could feel the tension in his body, the conflict of whether or not he should suck in his gut, and the desire to enjoy the moment. 

Sweet words and descriptions of what lay in store for the evening were mumbled against Buggy’s body. How she likes holding his hips while sucking him off, that she loves to watch how his body moves when she’s bouncing on top of him, the way she feels so deliciously overpowered when he’s thrusting into her from behind and his heaviness presses her into the mattress. Again, words turned into actions, ones that had Buggy’s eyes rolling into the back of his head and Sunny crying his name throughout the night.

Buggy slept in the next morning. It was the first time in a long while and it felt good. Rolling over in bed, the pirate was surprised to see Sunny already awake and busy with a project. She was sewing something. Her skilled movements brought a lazy smile to Buggy’s face as he watched his wife.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

“I think you mean sexy, pirate husband,” Buggy said in a low morning voice, earning a chuckle in response. “Whatcha doing?”

“I put a bit of elastic in your pants so they’re more comfortable. They’ll fit the same, just with a bit more stretch, see?” She held them up and demonstrated.

Feeling a quiver in his lip, Buggy wiggled closer to Sunny so he could wrap her in his arms and press his face into her abdomen. She placed a hand on his head and listened to the words he spoke against her body. They were muffled, but Sunny knew what he was saying.

---

Sunny joined Buggy on his morning jog exactly one time. Not because she didn’t enjoy it - quite the opposite, actually - but because she was unprepared. She wasn’t ready for what the pirate captain’s workout entailed.

His outfit was the first surprise. Tube socks, shorts that showed a teasing amount of thigh, a sleeveless shirt, a high ponytail, and a sweatband. Sunny didn’t even know he had some of these articles of clothing, let alone that he'd be so comfortable in them. The outfit was a gift that kept giving. The shorts crept up his legs as he moved. The top kept his shoulders and arms on display. Even though the sweatband was doing its job, sometimes Buggy would pull his shirt up and wipe the moisture from his face, giving Sunny a full view of his glistening body.

And then there were the exercises Buggy did. In addition to the jogging, he added in a few other sets. Lunges up the stairs that worked his glutes. Push-ups that flexed his arms and came with tantalizing grunts. And the worst (or was it the best) was climbing the ship’s rigging. He moved with the skill and instinct that comes from a life at sea. And it was a turn on. When Buggy got back on the deck, he pulled up his shirt to wipe his face, yet again, and Sunny had to pull him below deck for a different kind of workout.

🎂🎁🤡

[frostgears]

distant world

this is how your dates go: she takes you out to a diner, and, at some point during dinner, she slips something in your drink.

sometimes she's brazen, like the first time: she stares you dead in the face as she squirts an eyedropper of something into your root beer, daring you to deviate from the plan. this what you want?, her eyebrows ask. this is how it's gonna go.

sometimes you don't even see her do it. you'll be nibbling the final corner of your diagonally sliced grilled cheese, about to ask if she actually dosed you. then the texture of the diner noise changes, as if sound could be wrapped in soft silk. the question dies on your lips.

however she does it, whatever she uses, she keeps getting your defenses down enough so that you can fuck her. it's not your fault that you can't manage at baseline. it's not her fault either. dysphoria is just a bitch like that.

it's so much easier to let yourself get that close, let her guide your girlcock into her neovag, when you're halfway out of your head. when your brain is busy elsewhere and you don't have to think about how artificial you both are.

this time you're fucking on the cold stone floor of her bathroom. she's under you. you're avoiding her eyes, instead watching the floor over her shoulder. the rippled patterns of the marble extrude themselves into peaks and canyons, the topography of a distant world.

an alien war machine crawls down one valley, beam cannons in its forward section glowing electric blue. as the far-away meat part of you thrusts again into her, you're down there in the metal oxide dust, watching turning joints, feeling the thump of its footfalls.

you don't know this model well enough to distinguish loaded artillery rocket tubes in its thorax from empties. is it repositioning for battle, or fleeing it?

"huh? don't stop, not now!"

you must have said that out loud. you try to explain. the words come out all at once, so you point.

she turns her head, hair fanning out a little further across the marble. then she stretches out a hand, a finger, locking her legs around your hips as she does.

the alien war machine hunkers low as a sudden dust storm bears down on it. then it leaps over your viewpoint, tracing a high arc in the low gravity. it hits the ground and picks up speed, dashing to cover further away than your optics can pick up.

"fuck, it's just a jumping spider, ignore it," she orders, reinforcing her demand with a squeeze of her legs.

a minute later, the signal breaks up. you're back in yourself, and sticky, and the marble tiles are just marble tiles again.

she holds you after, but not gently. fingernails sharp against your skin.

"not using this stuff again. it's no fun. i just need you nice and fuzzed, not totally out there."

"you could take it too," you mumble.

"why? let's not make this more complicated than it has to be. i'll get lonely," she says, "with you going so far away that i can't find you." □

[sunday-tyger]

IN THE 1600 AND 1700

When visiting the Palace of Versailles in Paris, it is observed that the sumptuous palace has no bathrooms.

In the Middle Ages, there were no toothbrushes, perfumes, deodorants, and much less toilet paper.

Human excrements were thrown out of palace windows.

On a holiday, the palace kitchen was able to prepare a feast for 1500 people, without the minimum hygiene.

In today's movies we see people from that era shaking or fanning...

The explanation is not in the heat, but in the foul odour emitted under the skirts (which were deliberately made to contain the smell of private parts, since there was no hygiene). It was also not customary to shower due to the cold and the almost non-existence of running water.

Only the nobles had lackeys to fan them, to dispel the bad odor that exhalated the body and mouth, as well as to scare away the insects.

Those who have been to Versailles have admired the huge and beautiful gardens that, at that time, were not only contemplated, but used as a toilet in the famous ballads promoted by the monarchy, because there were no bathrooms.

In the Middle Ages, most weddings took place in June (for them, the beginning of summer).

The reason is simple: the first bath of the year was taken in May; so, in June, the smell of people was still tolerable.

However, as some odors were already beginning to bother, the brides carried bouquets of flowers near their bodies to cover the odor.

Hence the explanation of the origin of the bridal bouquet.

The baths were taken in a single massive tub filled with hot water.

The head of the family had the privilege of the first swim in clean water.

Then, without changing the water, the others arrived in the house, in order of age, women, also by age and finally, children.

The babies were the last ones to bathe. When his turn came, the water in the bathtub was so dirty that it was possible to kill a baby inside.

The roofs of the houses had no sky and the wooden beams that held them up were the best place for animals: dogs, cats, rats and cockroaches to keep warm.

When it rained, leaks forced the animals to jump to the ground.

Those who had money had tin plates. Certain types of food oxidized the material, causing many people to die from poisoning. Let's remember that the hygiene habits of the time were terrible.

Tomatoes, being acidic, were considered poisonous for a long time, can cups were used to drink beer or whiskey; this combination, sometimes, left the individual "on the floor" (in a kind of narcolepsy induced by mixing alcoholic beverage with tin oxide).

Someone passing by the street would think he was dead, so they were picking up the body and preparing for the funeral.

Then the body would be placed on the kitchen table for a few days and the family would stand watching, eating, drinking and waiting to see if the dead man would wake up or not.

Hence the wake of the dead (wake or wake), which is the vigil next to the coffin.

England is a small country, where there wasn't always a place to bury all the dead.

Then the coffins were opened, the bones were extracted, they were placed in oarsaries and the grave was used for another corpse.

Sometimes, when opening the coffins, you could notice scratches on the lids inside, indicating that the dead man had, in fact, been buried alive.

Thus, when closing the coffin, the idea came to tie a strip of the deceased's wrist, pass it through a hole made in the coffin and tie it to a bell.

After the burial, someone stayed on duty next to the grave for a few days.

If the individual woke up, the movement of his arm would ring the bell.

And it would be "saved by the campaign," an expression used by us to this day.

[nice-bright-colors]

What's your favorite job that you've had?

What place was your favorite to live?

Thanks @heatherannchristie for these questions. Once again, I had to turn back in time to recall those memories. I’ll try to be brief in my answers.

Favorite job: In the last 35 years, I’ve held 10 positions at 5 different companies (not including starting my own business in late 2020). My favorite job was working in the Grocery Dept at Jewel Foods in the burbs of Chicago. We screwed around all the time, sometimes worked overnights, and always found the “damaged” whipped cream cans. Meaning, we would suck out all the nitrous oxide in a few cases of whipped cream, and report the product as damaged. Then hang out inside the dairy cooler until our heads were clear again.

A very close 2nd, was the job as a laborer at UPS (back when it was privately owned). My starting pay as a Teamster was $8.50/hr (1991-93)…and basically got to work out for 4 hours a day. I lost around 65 pounds in the first 3 months, it did wonders for my self-esteem. Although some people thought I was seriously sick, and my own mother thought I was addicted to crack cocaine. My diet included 2 pots of coffee and 2 packs of cigarettes a day, and I was the healthiest of my entire life.

Favorite place to live: in the last 50 years I’ve lived in (2) states, and approximately (8) different locations. Hands down, the favorite place is out here in Colorado. I’m about 13-15 miles away from the Flatirons (small mountains in front of the big 14ers). All of which I can see from where I live. This was the best decision of my life to move here, and only took 23 years after we Honeymooned here.

The runner up was the apartment we had just outside Chicago. The building had 12 units on 3 floors. 5 out of the 6 units on the front half were occupied by people who were already friends, stood up in each other’s weddings, became lifelong friends, or were related to each other. Imagine living the life of the TV show Friends, with (6) different couples. (One couple moved out, but were replaced with others that fit right in).

We would open all the doors and have huge parties with a few hundred people. We constantly sat in the hallway drinking beers after work. Kidnapped home decor from each other. I even stole the food off my friends grill by climbing over the balcony when he wasn’t looking. Ahhhh to live your fullest life in your early/mid 20’s again.

30 years, 7 kids total, countless pets, 1 divorce, and only 1 death…and we still call each other “neighbor”.

Please note, this was a time before advanced cell phones, let alone cameras on phones.

…and I had considerably more hair.

[charlesandmartine]

Saturday 16th November 2024

Mount Isa is a clean little city, neatly laid out in rows. Plain non-aspirational houses everywhere in streets with industrial names such as Carbonate St, Oxide St, Sulphide St. Not the sort of names that would attract you in Escape to the Country. You get the feeling that people view where they live is secondary to their place of work.

After a tiring day, working down the mines, theoretically, we should have taken a day off, but places to go, people to meet, don't you know. This morning was Saturday market, and being Saturday, we thought that most appropriate. The market was back at the Hard Times Mine, and the first person we met pulling up in the carpark was our guide from yesterday, Steve. He had just pulled up in his old saloon pickup. He slammed the door behind him, but we noticed he didn't lock or close the windows. On inspection yesterday, we couldn't help commenting between us that we have seen tidier skips and cleaner dust carts. But we had a laugh with him this morning comparing notes regarding climate change. It turns out he was brought up in Redditch!

There was nothing of particular interest at the market, which was mainly craft items, so we decided to move on and have a picnic at Lake Moondarra; a reservoir covering over 23.7 square kilometers and holding 107 Gigalitres of water plus roughly 50 freshy crocodiles. So quite big as lakes go. I'm led to understand that when these things were important, indigenous people's used the site as a stone axe quarry satisfying a market for such implements across distances as far as 1,000 kms away. Filling it with 107 GL of water might well have put a stop on that. The dam was built for Mount Isa Mines and, at the time, was the largest water scheme in Australia financed by private enterprise and completed in 1958. It was a beautiful place, and we viewed it from the usual lookout point high above the lake. Birds abounded, pelicans, darters, parakeets, swifts, and Tortoise Town lizards. We started a short walk called Wallaby Walk, which, although did have many a calling card left behind from a wallaby, actual wallabies there were none. It's a strange thing, but on this trip, to date, we have seen very few kangaroos or their marsupial counterparts. We shall keep looking.

By way of celebrating our last night in Mount Isa, we walked around the corner to the Barkly Hotel for a Stonehouse beer. A more swanky place would be hard to find even if you relied on your guide dog. The esteemed establishment faces the mine entrance, and clearly, this is a favoured watering hole. Christmas has not been too obvious in its approach to date, a trend quite reversed by the Barkly Hotel, which has made quite a feature of its forthcoming. Just inside the main entrance, you have a choice of either taking a left into the Pokies room (slot machines to any sane English person) or be delighted by the tasteful inflatable Christmas barbie. I think for those who know good taste you can get a general idea of the kind of place this is. Well, we got a couple of Stonehouse schooners and took a bar stool with other riff raff. Well, it was pleasant, and it's the stuff that makes for lasting memories, after all, isn't it?

We shall be moving on tomorrow and leaving Mount Isa behind. We really weren't sure how we would like this place; people had suggested it might be a bit rough, or there would be nothing to see here. We have enjoyed it very much and have seen some amazing things. But tomorrow, we will arrive in Cloncurry, which is not a million miles away from where we were last year.

[howdoesone]

How does one troubleshoot common brewing problems, such as stuck fermentations or off flavors?

Brewing beer can be a fun and rewarding hobby, but it can also be frustrating when things don’t go as planned. From stuck fermentations to off-flavors, there are many issues that can arise during the brewing process. In this article, we will discuss some common brewing problems and how to troubleshoot them. Continue reading Untitled

[mizkit]

new blog post: on the topic of flavors

new blog post on https://mizkit.com/on-the-topic-of-flavors/

on the topic of flavors

Look, this is neither here nor there, really, but some friends have suggested I’m some kind of weird supertaster/smeller or something because I find wine and coffee and several other foods so off-putting*. I’ve never put much credence into it, but:

I can’t use some of our silver forks because as they oxidize they begin to smell like garlic, and it’s disgusting when I’m eating not-garlicy food. Nobody else in the house notices this.

I can only use certain dishwasher tablets because there are some lemon-scented ones that leave a lemon scented flavor on the plates and it’s disgusting. Nobody else in the house notices this.

I just made brownies in a pan that had recently had a strongly-flavored fish dish baked in it, and, like, IT HAD BEEN BOTH HAND WASHED AND RUN THROUGH THE DISHWASHER and the bottoms of the brownies tasted like fish to me. Nobody else in the house noticed this.

So, like… :}

*I actually have a kind of working theory that I’ve got some kind of intolerance to fermented foods, because while I LOVE milk and ice cream, I have an incredibly low tolerance for cheese and can’t eat yogurt at all, don’t like sourdough breads, think wine tastes like grape juice that’s gone bad (and i don’t even like grape juice, so that’s just extra bad), find beer just plain disgusting, and can only eat really mildly pickled things if at all on the pickling front. Get thee behind me, sauerkraut. This could well all be pure horseshit, but the only fermented things I like at all are hard alcohols, which I also barely drink (because I get hangovers for days and it’s not worth it, not bc I dislike the hard alcohols). :shrug:

[collapsedsquid]

Carbon offsets are inherently controversial because they allow airlines, oil companies and other corporations to buy someone else’s emissions reductions instead of reducing their own emissions, as if they were medieval Catholics buying papal indulgences to greenwash their sins. The additional problem with today’s offsets is that the emissions reductions keep turning out to be bogus. There have been offsets for installing solar arrays that would have been installed anyway, protecting forests that would have been protected anyway, and sequestering carbon in farm soils that can’t be measured accurately. By contrast, the emissions reductions when a farmer uses less fertilizer are tangible, measurable and easily verifiable. Pivot Bio has begun to broker deals that compensate farmers for those reductions — not through offsets, where an unrelated company buys a credit so that it can keep emitting, but through ​“insets,” where a company that ends up using the crop pays to reduce emissions in its own supply chain. For instance, a beverage company is buying PROVEN 40 directly for four Kentucky corn growers to produce climate-friendlier mash for its bourbon. The beverage company will get to count the reduced nitrous oxide emissions toward its global climate goals while the farmers will get free nitrogen. Pivot is also finalizing similar insetting deals with a beer company, a grain aggregator and an ingredients company. And it’s paying farmers to collect data on their fertilizer use, which could pave the way for more credible offset deals in the future.

No I'm sorry that sounds equally stupid, I can't believe this is how we are planning on saving the planet, this makes cryptocurrency seem respectable.

[brenda0ng]

Consistency is Key

“Beer is all marketing. People don’t drink beer, they drink marketing." (Michael Foley, Heineken USA Inc. CEO, from 1994-1999)

The Corona-Heineken rivalry is a case study on the importance of consistency in brand communications, especially when brand associations take a long time to build up.

Corona has always tried to conjure up “Fun, Sun, Beach” for its brand. This was built from its consumers experiences with the brand, usually on vacation in Mexico and enjoying the light beer in the sun and on the beach. When people grab a beer, it is usually in a setting where they want to kick back and relax, and be transported away to more relaxed times, so Corona’s brand fits with this consumer need - think about the conversations around the Corona as well, where consumers can start chatting about their fun times and wild experiences (there are bound to be a few) in Mexico, becoming the perfect social lubricant. Corona is also exported to other markets in its authentic Mexican form, so the consistent packaging draws the same emotional association with the relaxing Mexican holiday for the consumer. The added advantage for Corona was that its innovative brewing process eliminated the oxidative effect, more consistently preserving the taste of Corona to consumers as they remember on that sunny beach in Mexico. Advertising content and taglines (‘Change your latitude’ in 1994, ‘Find your beach’ in 2010s) and tie-ups with celebrities that embody the “party” like Jimmy Buffett in its early days to Snoop Dogg more recently, remain faithful to that initial branding vision, allowing the positive brand associations as a premium Mexican beer, to be cemented in consumers minds over time. From its advertising, product look, taste to price in global markets, Corona has executed high consistency in the way its beer is marketed, to guarantee that a strong positive cognitive association to the positive holiday is ingrained in consumers over time. They have also chosen a niche association that is difficult to replicate.

Contrast this to Heineken, where we have a Dutch pilsner in a green bottle. The oxidative effect can cause a sulphurous taste, which commonly leads to a “skunky beer” when left for too long. It is traditionally viewed as a premium beer, associated with quality, heritage and sophistication - but this also happens to be the same values that many foreign imported beer brands also focus on building - meaning that the association to quality can be easily replaced by many other competitor beers as well, those coming from heritage, European type brands, as with many brands under another competitor brewer, Anheuser-Busch. In the 1990s, the changing demographics in the US saw the population in Southern and Western US outpace that in the Northeast and Midwest, alongside the growth of the Hispanic population exceeding that of other ethnic groups. Heineken’s advertising strategy through the 1980s-90s focused on product quality, but this was not necessarily the desired value in the beer that they’re young consumers that they were trying to attract - the conversation revolving around the Heineken would be very different; you are less likely to hear younger consumers waxing poetic about the quality of the Dutch pilsner or the Van Gogh museum they visited in the Netherlands. Heineken also changed its packaging in the mid-90s in the US, and its “personality”, trying to introduce humour to the brand, but this ran the risk of deviating from the values that drew its core customers to it. This switch also requires Heineken to have to rebuild brand associations again.

Through consistency in brand communications, Corona has now overtaken Heineken as the 2nd leading imported beer brand in the US in 2022 (Source: Statista). The Top beer brand, Modelo Especial, is also owned by Grupo Modelo - also a reflection of their patient brand-building that tapped into the American love of sports with associations of a “fighting spirit”.

[ezra-iolite]

The Things I Write Sometimes, I Swear...

I'm about halfway done with your gift fic, @dimorphodon-x, which I've codenamed Boogaloo for now... And my brain made a whole ass line of dialogue out of nowhere that just made me cackle so hard! I have no idea how I made it, if it was intentionally sampling from Good Omens, but it just appeared and IT WORKS SO WELL!! 😂

I wanna provide context.... But nah, it's so much better without~ What you DO need to know is that this is said by Swift to Rodimus, when the two are joking around, and she gives him her classic level of sass via a comparison between the two of them.

"...... You, my dear Rodimus Prime, are gayer than a Vosian dance club full of glow-stick adorned turbo foxes full of beer and nitrous oxide."

Why does it keep making me laugh, every time I read it?!

Hope this gives you a chuckle too and helps to keeps you going, while I keep writing this fic for you, Dim. 🤣

[kyogre-blue]

My work is doing an (online) cider tasting event. There's some funny trivia that made me think of Mondstadt:

Cider has been around for 5000 years.

1 gallon of cider takes 15 pounds of apples.

The byproduct of making cider is called pomace.

The nation that consumes to the most cider per capita is Ireland.

However, the country that produces the most cider is France (particularly Normandy and Brittany regions, which have been producing since the 6th century).

Incidentally, I'm a weakling and doing the non-alcoholic version, but apparently cider is generally alcoholic. Because of this, it was hit by prohibition back in the day.

To make cider, you store the applies outside for about a week, so they soften. Then you wash them, pouring them from the bins onto a conveyer to the scrubber. Then you grind them in a large mill into something like an apple sauce (pulp). The finer the pulp, the less oxidation occurs. Then you remove the juice from the pulp, leaving behind the pomace, via a press.

Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpbWf3gAxwY

Then you add yeast, which eats up the sugar to create alcohol. The process is the same as beer (funny point: despite talking so much about wine, Angel's Share is covered with plaques of beer mugs). Then you filter it again, and then bottle it up.

For non-alcoholic cider, there's no yeast (unless it is a de-alcoholised type).

[sreegs]

Do you know much about ciders? I'm somewhat new to drinking and I find I much prefer them to beer (all the beers I try just feel really bitter to me?)

Haven't really tried many spirits or cocktails either tbh. I live near a pretty nice store so sourcing isn't an issue so much as paying for the stuff. Anything simple and relatively cheap you might recommend to an amateur drink mixer? Maybe on the sweeter end like fruity/minty?

I tried to get into ciders, I honestly can't say I learned much but I do like to drink them seasonally. I don't know good national brands off the top of my head because cider never caught on here in America during the beer resurgence. I know that cider is much more popular in the UK for example, so if you're there and not here, then you have more options.

I do like a local cider though. Since I live in NYC I'm in apple country. Farmers markets have them and there's cideries not too far outside the city (if anyone here is an NYC resident, go check out Penning's near Warwick).

Cider is usually graded along the dry/sweet axis much like wine. There can also be sour ciders as well. This heavily depends on the type of apple and the aging and oxidation that occurs. Additionally it's not unusual to have ciders with added honey that are weird cider/mead hybrids. Those will also be sweet.

Sweet ciders are straightforward: they'll have a profile closer to non-alcoholic cider. Bright and fruity. Dry ciders are called as such because they're, well, not sweet. It's the absence of sweetness. They're not bitter, they may also be described as "tangy" but not always. Really dry ciders make your mouth feel dry after sipping. I've enjoyed ciders up and down the sweet/dry axis, can't say I have a favorite.

Sour ciders are similar to sour beers. They range from "that's a little funky" to "is this komboucha?". I find sours are a love-it-or-hate-it kind of thing so if you find one and you're unsure, buy the smallest amount possible.

Fun fact: cider was once the most popular alcohol in western Europe and more coveted than champagne. Colonial Americans were drinking cider when they weren't stealing land from the natives and committing genocide. Cider and rum, mostly. And beer. Please note this was not cider's fault.

Simple, sweet, fruity, minty. A couple options depending on what you consider easy. I'll give you a couple "proper" recipes as well as the easy way to make them. Oh actually, three. Let's start with the really simple one. Fernet and cola. Don't cringe, it's great. Start with 1 oz of fernet to 8 oz of cola (or 1.5oz to 12 oz if you're using a whole can of coke). serve with lots of ice and a lemon slice. If you like it, increase the Fernet. A proper pour is 5 oz of fernet with a enough cola added to top off the glass. Use bottled cane sugar cola if you can get it. Oh, and make sure it's Fernet Branca. Don't be tempted by Branca Menta, you'll be over-minted.

Try a Mojito. The making of a mojito requires muddling but it needs to be done with finesse as to not pulverize the leaves. Muddle 3-5 mint leaves at the bottom of a shaker with 1/2 oz of simple syrup. Add 2 oz of white rum and 3/4 oz of lime juice. Pour in the ice, shake gently, serve on the rocks topped with club soda/seltzer and a fresh mint sprig.

If you're new to muddling, don't muddle this drink. Muddling too hard will break the leaves make the drink bitter. Grab a sprig or two of mint leaves in one hand and slap the leaves against your other wrist a few times. This will bruise the leaves and express the oils enough without having to muddle. Pluck the leaves and toss them in the shaker with the simple syrup and the rest of the ingredients. Make the same way as above.

Now, if it's the middle of the summer and you just want a drink that's practically whiskey mint snow cone, make a Mint Julep. This is best made in an "old fashioned" style glass (wide, squat glass that holds 8-12 oz) if you don't have the traditional metal cups. Same techniques for the mint as above for the start except you're muddling the mint alone (or doing the wrist slap + pluck the leaves trick). Bruised/muddled mint in the bottom of the glass. Cover with lots of crushed or pebble ice, like a snowcone basically. Pour in 2 ounces of bourbon. Pour over, slowly, one ounce of simple syrup. Let it sit for a minute, garnish with more mint, drink with a straw, stirring as needed.

If you don't have crushed ice, take regular ice cubes and crush them in a clean cotton cloth with something heavy. If you don't even want to bother, just stir for 30 seconds before serving. The trick is, since the crushed ice has more surface area, it melts faster than whole cubes and helps meld the flavors together. This is definitely the hardest of the three drinks to make and it's the most that's "best if done right". But a little elbow grease is enough to make this a great drink.