#i had to reverse engineer it by stretching out the texture

[rebeccathenaturalist]

Welcome to my Tuesday morning PSA about plastics!

So--I was walking along the Bolstadt beach approach sidewalk here in Long Beach, WA yesterday afternoon, and I started seeing these little orange pellets on the ground that looked a little bit like salmon roe (but probably weren't). So I picked one up, and it was most definitely rubber. I went around picking up every one I could find, and while I didn't keep exact count I probably amassed 50-60 of them. I took this picture before depositing them in the nearest trash can.

These are airsoft gun pellets, and you can buy them in big jars containing thousands of them. That means that someone who decided that the beach was a great place to shoot their airsoft guns could easily litter the place with countless little bits of plastic rubber in less than an hour. We already have a huge problem here with people leaving trash, including tiny bits of plastic, all over the beach (you should see the gigantic mess after 4th of July fireworks when thousands of people come in from out of town, blow things up, and then leave again without picking up after themselves.)

But these airsoft pellets have a particularly nasty side effect. You know how my first thought was "wow, those look kind of like salmon roe?" Well, we have a number of opportunistic omnivore birds like crows, ravens, and several species of gull that commonly scavenge on the beach, especially along the approaches because people often feed them there. If I can catch the resemblance of an orange airsoft pellet to a fish egg, then chances are there are wildlife that will assume they're edible.

Since birds don't chew their food, they probably won't notice that the taste or texture is wrong--it'll just go down the hatch. And since they can't digest the pellets, there's a good chance they might just build up in the bird's digestive system, especially if the bird eats a large number of them--say, fifty or sixty of them dropped on the ground along the same fifty foot stretch of sidewalk. The bird might die of starvation if there's not enough capacity for food in their stomach--or they might just die painfully of an impacted gut, and no way to get help for it. If the pellets end up washed into the ocean, you get the same issue with fish and other marine wildlife eating them, and then of course the pellets eventually breaking up into microplastic particles.

You can get biodegradable airsoft pellets; they appear to mainly be gray or white in color rather than bright screaming orange and green. But "biodegradable" doesn't mean "instantly dissolves the next time it rains." An Amazon listing for Aim Green biodegradable airsoft pellets advertise them as "Our biodegradable BBs are engineered to degrade only with long-term exposure to water and sun and will degrade 180 days after being used." That's half a year for them to be eaten by wildlife.

I don't know, y'all. That handful of carelessly dropped rubber pellets just encapsulates how much people don't factor in the rest of nature when making decisions, even on something that is purely for entertainment like an airsoft gun. We could have had a lot of the same technological advances we have today, but with much less environmental impact, if we had considered the long-term effects on both other people and other living beings, as well as our habitats. We could have found ways from the beginning to make these things in ways that benefited us but also mitigated any harm as much as possible. Instead we're now having to reverse-engineer things we've been using for decades, and sometimes--like the "biodegradable" airsoft pellets--they still have a significant negative impact.

But--at least there are people trying to do things better, thinking ahead instead of just on immediate profit. We're stuck in a heck of a mess here, figuratively and literally, and changing an entire system can't be done in a day. Maybe we can at least keep pushing for a cultural shift that emphasizes planning far into the future--if not the often-cited "seven generations ahead", then at least throughout the potential lifespan of a given product.

[00towns]

three diys for spring

Much like in an old Western, I find that when the season begins to change my hands twitch to buy new things like a hardened cowboy wiggles his fingers over his pistol, prepared to draw at the slightest prompt. Like the cowboy, I'm perhaps too aware of my own trope: stuff has started to feel like a subculture. The unintentional mindfulness imparted by moving back home has allowed me to finally clearly assess how much stuff I've acquired through a half dozen moves over the last four years and a half dozen more international trips in that same time. I am tired of consuming out of instinct. I would like to extend the grace to my things to allow them to age, yellow, fray.

One thing that no one will tell you about becoming a more mindful consumer is how important it is to literally touch your stuff as much as possible. Feel the fabric of things that you already like, notice texture, stretch, structure. Note what motifs or characteristics that you gravitate towards, get your hands deep into the pockets, zippers, folds. Write everything down. When you know more about how your things are made and work, you know better how to fix them if they break, change them over time to suit evolving needs, and therefore extend their life over and over. To calm my trigger-happy hand hovering over my gun holster, twitching in anticipation of the instant gratification of new stuff, I've handmade some items I've had my eye on or refreshed items I already owned, and in the process created three unique pieces that are not only custom to my measurements, preferences, and personal sense of style, but I know how to repair, edit should my tastes change, and style.

1. Seulgi got bitten by a dog and now I have a new top

To be clear, the dog was just playing and she was definitely fine afterwards. Kitty sent me the video and I have to say, my intrusive thoughts won.

I broke the top down into characteristics that I liked: I liked the color, the open knit texture, and a less weighty yarn for wearing crocheted fabrics in warmer weather. I was getting bored of the 4/5.5mm that I had beaten to death for two large afghan projects last year, and wanted to attempt a mid-size crochet before investing in any finer yarn or hooks for some other projects I've had in mind. I'm still not a skilled enough crocheter to work more complicated things like wearables without a pattern, so I found this pattern online and bought it for $6. The pattern recommended a fingering weight yarn, but I found superfine to be difficult to source at the craft store rather than a specialty yarn store, so I bumped it up to a 3 / 4.0mm and hoped for the best. After some math to account for a lower wraps per inch, the top came together quickly.

I was surprised with how much I liked it, especially considering the amount of scrolling on Ravelry I had to do in order to find anything fitting my exact brief, and the copious edits I had to do to fix a poorly written pattern. It's not perfect (I quite obviously dropped a stitch on the left strap, but in my defense, that's my tote bag side so it'll never be seen), but I'm happy that I was able to create something inspired but not a carbon copy. Crochet also isn't replicable by machine and is labor intensive, so I was glad to make it rather than buy it from a producer with questionable ethics.

2. Reverse engineering

This project was more of an attempt at a 1:1 dupe than my first project, which is much more my typical modus operandi, but I'll rebut that the source material I was working from was of vastly different quality. I found this picture on Pinterest, and immediately thought, 'I could do that'.

I already had the pants in mind when I set out to try this, meaning that I didn't need to wait for the right piece to materialize at the thrift store. I bought these khaki Dickies to wear for a weirdly smart-casual dress code internship a few years ago but hadn't reached for them in a while because of their awkward length and color, both of which I knew I could change if I attempted this DIY. They were also straight-leg, which I suspected the V-split hem would open up just the right amount for a gentle bell shape as in the reference picture.

One thing I knew would be a concern going into this project was the task of neatly hemming the awkward shape of the cutout, particularly the sharp inner corner. As the fabric tapered off, I wouldn't be able to sew it down and the corner itself was likely to fray. To remedy this, I added the tiniest strip of fabric, doubled over to create a clean edge, to extend the width of the hem so that both sides would overlap to reinforce the point. I also pressed and sewed the pleated inserts at this point, also requiring a bit of trial and error. Pleats this small decreased the length of the piece by about half, so I was using an entire yard of fabric to go around the circumference of the pant leg. Some Googling also taught me that a 1:2 mixture of vinegar and water, sprayed on and then ironed, helps keep pleats sharp and in place, so I had to let the inserts hang dry in my bathroom for a few days to let the smell dissipate.

As you can see, I initially sewed the outside set of stitches on the hem (everything in this project was sewn by hand, because I just can't bring myself to invest in a sewing machine), assuming that when dyed black the stitches would disappear. Clearly, I was optimistic about this plan working, because they were incredibly haphazard. Despite being ugly, the shape of the cutout was coming together correctly, and I moved onto dying the pants black using synthetic fabric dye to account for the cotton polyester mix. The first round came out of the dryer an extremely underwhelming gray, but the second round, done on the stovetop, produced a dark gray that I was happy with as a lighter alternative to black for spring. However, this meant that the ugly black stitches running down either side of the V were extremely visible, and I ripped out the stitches and turned to iron-on hem tape to hold everything together and not have to compromise the overall effect, despite initially wanting to stay away from it for washability purposes.

I attached the inserts by turning everything inside out and using the hem tape to attach the sewn edge of the pleats just above the V-cutout, hiding the seam and adding just about an inch to the length of the pants. At this point I was extremely satisfied with how everything was coming together. The final details were just the bows, which I was increasingly suspect of, all the way up until I attached them.

I already had a little bit of chain and sewed tiny loops onto the bit of loose hem on the inside of the V-hem so the join would be invisible. These are, in effect, crowdsourced pants.

At time of post I still haven't decided which looks better, but again, knowing the construction of these will allow me to easily change from option to another, extending the wearability and life of these. The one downside is that I will likely have to spot clean these as much as possible, because any washing, machine or by hand, will totally destroy the pleats because I didn't starch them (I didn't have any, and I was getting sick of running to the store). Barring any major disaster, these will probably spend a few hours in the freezer between wears to kill any bacteria, a la Japanese raw denim enthusiasts. Should push come to shove, I can remove the bow/chain detail and repress the pleats using the vinegar trick because they're sown down, but please, no one wedding-guest-wearing-white me.

3. Reverse engineering, but make it /r/FashionReps hates me

This technically isn't something I did recently, but it's still one of my favorites. I saw someone on Tiktok wearing the Rick Owens Docs, and I didn't even have to Google them to know they would be impossible to find and exorbitantly expensive.

Instead, I kept an eye on Poshmark for a few months before finding a pair of white platform Chelsea Docs for $40. The white leather hadn't held up nicely in color but they were otherwise solid in wear and construction. I rubbed off the finish with some rubbing alcohol and painted them black using acrylic leather paint, effectively disguising any damage. I bought the longest white shoelaces I could find and got them to a dirty gray by soaking them in water with the tiniest amount of black paint. Working first with eyelash glue just to place the O-rings correctly, I laced them up and came up with these dupes.

This worked for a picture, but I had to bite the bullet and drill holes into the boots to screw the O-rings down instead of just gluing them (the coward's option). This ended being the right decision, because they sit much more nicely and are much sturdier. I ended up with a visually similar pair of boots for a tenth of the price that no one but a specific type of Rick Owens fashion chad would call me out for.

Because this isn't a recent DIY, I can report back that these have needed a little TLC after heavy wear to get them looking good again. I'm pretty rough with them, so leather paint sometimes cracks and expose the white at certain pressure points, which is a 10-second fix. The O-rings tend to break, especially at the toes, because they're not really meant to withstand the roughness of shoe-wear, but I have extras so I can replace them quickly. I cannot express how often I reach for these, and how important it has been that I can fix them myself.

4. Conclusion?

Touch your stuff. I'm so serious.

[andstuffsketches]

[a low poly 3d model of Princess Tutu, smiling and in a ballet pose, looking at the camera. impact font above and below her says “May those who accept their fate be granted happiness, may those who defy their fate be granted glory” end id]

🦆🩰✨

[joannasteez]

𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: EZ Reyes x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: Mature Themes.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4.7k

Credits to who made the gif @angelreyesgirl

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @my-rosegold-soul @appropriate-writers-name @est1887 @xladymacbethx @blessedboo @brownsugarcoffy @elektriknachosss @queenbeered

Let me know if you’d like a tag!!!

✞

Your annoyance was simmering, daring to merge into the depths of some irreversible state of agitation. The engine of the classic Dodge Charger RT in your possession had, with incredibly poor timing, began to knock. The unsavory noise resonating into the thick air of the street, stilled heat of the day pushing back the regular ebb and flow of the Santo Padre streets to make way for the obnoxious sound of your engine. Your head was spinning, dazed by the bitter humidity and a steady brew of fear trembling in your fingers to dance just under the surface of your skin. The classic car was given by your father, who'd gotten it from his father, the mass of glistening matte black metal of significant value. If the engine failed, you'd be reduced to tears, wading in the dread of some existential crisis.

Your grandfather had had this car for twenty years, the imprint of his essence etched into the leather seats, and when he became grey and withered, he relinquished it to your father for another fifteen years, till finally, it was yours.

You pulled over just as the last knock sounded, the tremble in your fingers worsening. Your eyes welled, sure to leave a soft red glassiness. The need for air consumed you, the space to walk freely about, a puff of smoke or two maybe.

The pavement was hard under your feet, slam of the door accented by vexation. You picked behind your ear, that nicely rolled spliff safely kept and waiting to be lit. The lighter in your front pocket an easy grab, the flicker of orange a short friendly blaze as it singed the paper. The pull you took was slow, measured, as if to savor this minuscule moment of stillness that lived among others not so still. Not so peaceful. With release, you blew into the air, dried eyes taking in the vast blue of the sky. The never ending expansion blurring your vision as your mind sifted through slim courses of action. If you could just get the car to your garage, then you could figure the battery out on your own, saving time you didn’t have on a mechanics trips you couldn’t afford. All you needed was a—

"Need a boost?"

"Yes". The answer was so quick, it nearly gave you whiplash. The tension in your bones dissipating as you got rid of the sizzling flame around your spliff.

The stranger spun his car from its position just beside yours, the hood of it now facing yours head on before he turned it off and got out.

"Thanks so much for this".

"No problem. It's a nice ride you got, don't really see too many classics rolling around Santo Padre much", he said, eyeing the shine of the paint job. His fingers skimming the hood before he lifted it. "Where'd you get it?"

You step closer to him, a grin stretching your lips at his admiration. The RT was your pride and joy, the height of your ego bursting through to rise above some invisible ceiling whenever folks gave it compliments and stares of approval. "My dad had it for a while, gave it to me when he couldn't keep up with it anymore".

With a nod, he retrieved the cables from his trunk, the wide stretch of his back shifting just under the white fabric of his t-shirt to reveal the curve and ripple of muscles. They traveled down his arms, the bulge of them mixing with defined veins that ran across thick powerful looking fingers. He stretched one of those hands out toward you.

"Ezekiel Reyes".

You considered his hand for a moment, slipping it into your own as your eyes racked him with all the subtlety you could muster. It mustn't have been enough because that innocent friendly smile he gave you had turned into something more knowing. He knew you were checking him out but he didn't mind much. "Y/N".

His thumb skimmed the back of your hand just before letting go, turning his attention to attaching the cables to both cars properly. You minded his movements with the cables closely, triple checking the order in which he connected them with a hawks eye, a concentrated intensity that your dear old Charger RT deserved. Abruptly then, like the quickness of a blink or some single strike of lightning, a thought came to you. "Wait, not Reyes as in Carniceria Reyes?"

"Yeah it's my pops shop",

"Felipe's a real sweet guy. It's not everyday you can look through a deep book collection while the butcher cuts up your dinner". You paused, giving the beauty of his face another glance. "He should've warned me though, never told me both his sons were so handsome".

"You met Angel", he stated, a low dip in his tone. Was it disappointment?

"A couple of weeks ago. He was passing through when I stopped by to pick up somethings. He's a real charmer your brother, but I wouldn't worry. I don't think he's messed up your chances just yet", you flirted.

The assurance produced from him a toothy grin. "I'm not worried".

Silence took ahold of you then, anticipation of the moment charging the pressure in your chest to fall straight to your gut. ‘Please work' you whispered while swinging the door wide to slide into the warm leather of the drivers seat. With the key in the ignition, you twisted your wrist forward, a huff of relief puffing from your chest when the engine roars to life. You close the door quick, that relief bubbling under your skin, your head sticking out the window.

"Thanks again Reyes".

He stepped to the window, those warm endearing eyes taking in the summer glow of your face. His tongue slipped just over the plump flesh of his bottom lip. It was a rosy color, the curving dip of it enticing. He liked the way you said his last name.

"It's no problem".

You put your RT in reverse, backing away from his broad body. "See you around?"

"Maybe", he called.

You speed off, the rev of the engine blending into the ebb and flow of the town once again. Existence dipping into the horizon.

✞✞✞✞✞

You'd saw him again at some hole in the wall you frequented at. The smooth slow tempo of some classic 70s song strumming through the stereo to seep into your ears richly like fresh honey. The atmosphere was subdued, the short clinks of beer bottles and incomprehensible murmurs of frivolous conversations sating the air. It was the perfect place to think, to allow your mind to wander directionless through the never ending abyss of happenings and circumstances that had presented themselves down through the week. You made idle chitchat with the bartender about a laundry list of things of no particular significance, small smiles and light chuckles ringing from you both every now and then.

The night was going good, till you felt a creeping touch just at the low end of your back.

"Let me buy you a drink". The voice was rusted, withered by too much tobacco.

You held up the beer in your hand. "I've got already, I'm good".

This guy was tipsy, blood red creeping into his eyes, body swaying just the slightest bit. "Don't be like that, let me buy you another".

"I said I'm good", you asserted. The coolness of the bottle creating a tingling sensation in your hand. You'd crack it over his head if he touched you again.

"Sorry I'm late, everything alright?", another voice asked, but this one you knew. That deeply textured tone wrapping sweetly around your senses. You tore your irritated gaze set on the almost-drunk guy, softening it as you took Ezekiel in. He looked slightly different, refreshed it seemed, or maybe it was just his barbered hair. A Mayans kutte rested over him, comfortable like a second layer of skin, the black leather accentuating the swell of his muscles. You'd have to figure out later why your eyes diverted to them so often, they were becoming a hindrance to your thinking.

"Everything's good now", you played. Giving him a light peck to the cheek to sell the story. His arm wrapped around you in what appeared to be some reflexive reaction, all natural like he'd done it countless times before. When he realized Ezekiel wasn't leaving, the guy swayed away in true tipsy fashion. Mumbling incoherent things with a griped attitude. Ezekiel took his chair, the proximity of it in regards to yours making the point of his knee knock and slide the smooth plain of your jeans. You watched him take a glance over the bar before he called for a beer.

"Thanks for that".

"No problem", the corner of his lip turning up. "Seems like you've been needing my help a lot lately".

"Don't flatter yourself Reyes, this is just a coincidence".

"Any reason why you're at a bar alone?"

Your face screwed up in a show of confusion, but you could guess quickly the reason for the question. "Any reason why you're at a bar alone?"

He sipped at his beer. "Outside gets loud sometimes y'know, hectic. It's quiet in here. Good place to think".

"Exactly".

"A little unsafe for you though no?" And there it was.

"Everywhere's unsafe for me Ezekiel, I'm a woman. I mean I couldn't guarantee safety in my own home if I wanted to, but that's just how the world works". You paused, mischief rising in your face. "Don't worry though, I've got a little surprise for anyone who wants to test their luck".

"Oh really".

"Yeah, you men are dangerous out here. I gotta be prepared always".

His brows furrowed. "That's a bit of a big generalization to make".

"But if it's true it's true. Name one thing a man doesn't get dangerous about. Doesn't even have to be rejection", you say, turning to fully face him.

He considers the question for a moment, staring into the color of your eyes as if he'd find the answer in them. "Love".

"A man who loves, whose in love, would do any and everything, no matter how mad the shit is. He'd risk lives, his life even. If that's not dangerous then I don't know what is".

A speck of something lit in the hazel of his eyes. As if your words had brought to the present some memory buried deep within the grave of his soul. What you said hit rather close, closer than expected. "Who is she?"

"Doesn't matter, it's in the past".

"Humor me".

His jaw ticked before he spoke. "Her names Emily, but that shits all just history now. Doesn't matter". He turned the focus from himself. "What about you. Whose going all reckless about you".

"Who says he exist"

"You just did, I never specified who in particular".

So much for playing dumb. "His name is Jason".

"Sounds like an asshole".

You snort, the teasing of a headache coming as you thought on the insufferable man that was Jason. "He is. He's got that weird alpha male thing about him. Has to be in control of everything, doesn't know when to leave well enough alone".

The muted energy of the bar rose between the two of you, each taking quiet sips of your beer. You took notice of the way he surveyed the room from where he sat. That golden gaze sifting through the space and over bodies with quick ease. He was assessing, the gears in his head turning, calculating and considering every and all the possibilities of danger. It reminded you of someone.

"How long were you in for?", you ask.

"How'd you know?"

"You've been on the defensive since you sat down, lookin’ everywhere like someone's gonna up and shank you for no reason. My cousin was the same way when he got out, always looking over his shoulder". You shrugged. "Grew out of it eventually.

His eyes were a bit sullen, as if the truth would scare you. "Eight years".

"He was in for fifteen, and that prison shit is unbelievable, I mean the stories he's told me are crazy". You laugh suddenly at a memory, the resonance of it making him smile in admiration of the sound. "He did this thing for a while when he got home where he'd only have one knife, one fork and one spoon in his kitchen and I swear it was the funniest shit".

The smile falters, his body shifting awkwardly in the bar stool, embarrassed. 

"Oh my God Reyes don't tell me you've been doing the same thing".

"In my defense I live alone".

"But what if you have a special guest over, you'd be a sorry ass host", you tease.

"If you wanted to have dinner with me then just say that".

You force away the heat daring to rise in your cheeks. "We have to take a trip to home goods before I even consider a dinner with you”.

You both give hearty laughs, till the vibration in your pocket pulls your focus. With a quick slip of your phone, you realize how fast time had gone on. “Shit I gotta go, but it was real nice seeing you again Ezekiel".

"It was good seeing you too".

You press your hand against his patch, laying a sweet lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Make it home in one piece for me yeah".

"I have to. You might need me again".

"I'm counting on it".

✞✞✞✞✞

You were a joke it seemed, the universe and fate in a gaming mood, as they were using you as a source for their own amusement. Commissioning their faithful associate to do the heavy lifting of masking their scents. The two of you were at the right place, at the right time again, what a damn coincidence. Before the present week, you'd never even seen Ezekiel's face, just learning of his existence a week or so before that, and now you'd seen him twice in a matter of days. This night being the third.

He was surrounded by men who donned the same kutte as him, curious eyes swimming through the sea of bodies as they did in every other setting, till they met yours. He came to you without a second thought, eyeing the tight leather of your pants and how they clung to your thighs. The cropped cut of your vintage top revealing skin he longed to touch. Since the first time he saw you his mind raced with thoughts of your voice, visions of your lips touching his skin again, plaguing his body with the desire to have you.

You stepped away from your group of friends, meeting him half way. "You're just stalking me at this point. Not that I mind".

He clutched the openings of his kutte, that signature grin lighting his face, even with the casting over of the nights darkness. "Something told me I'd see you again. How's your RT?"

"Good, resting in my garage. I've been kinda scary about replacing the battery".

"Why?"

"I'm good with cars don't get me wrong, but something about fucking it up just makes me sick. It's a lot of history behind that car. I don't wanna destroy it".

"Understandable", he nodded. Noting the caution behind your words, the way you spoke with such passion and care about the thing you loved. It was endearing.

The heavy crunch of gravel and sand tore through the beginnings of some silent stare, an undeniable enticement brewing. It was Angel.

"I see you met this asshole already", the older Reyes said.

"I'm not an asshole Angel, just 'cause I turned you down".

He sent a smirk your way. "You didn't turn me down, we made a mutual decision that you couldn't handle me remember?"

"Right. That's exactly how it went".

A call sounded through the dewy air of the night, signifying the start of a race. You started toward a cherry red car.

"That's me", you said. In regards to the call.

Ezekiel was confused, intrigued. "You racing?"

"Yeah, the mustang", you called, strutting over to your 1970's Mustang, adding the slightest dip to your hips. Giving the brothers something to admire, before dropping low into the leather seats.

With a quick twist, the mustang roared to life, the rumble tearing through the air, growling like a fierce rolling thunder through hazy storm clouds. Another car pulled up on your right, the blue electric color of it dazzling, clashing against the fine cherry red of your own to deliver a sweet contrast for the eyes that watched on in excitement. A woman, with a dangled bandana in her hand, set herself between your car and the other, whistles of admiration thrown her way as she gave the summer evening crowd an alluring smile. At the point of her finger you revved your engine, adrenaline pumping through your veins, rushing from your chest to pulse under your skin. The leather feel of the steering wheel was smooth, the grip you held to it steady. With the downward pull of her hands she set both cars to race and you pulled your mustang swift into the night.

The road before you was a muddled darkness, the outward spreading glow of your headlights stabbing it and tearing it apart as your wheels took a glide against the smooth road. At the mark line, you shifted your car into reverse, whipping left, back into drive, soaring back down the road to where the crowd watched and waited. Their rigid bodies of anticipation lit by your headlights, bellowing screams waning under the busting sound of your revving engine. Your mustang tore through the finishing mark, the tingle of victory surging through you.

Pulling back up to the crowd, you rolled your window down, a slim roll of hundreds placed in your hand by the guy who’d set the race up. You showed up to win and now you were done.

Ezekiel and Angel were a little ways away from your car, your voice carrying over to them. "A little party at my place. You and your guys are cool to come".

They both nodded, heading to their bikes when Angel answered after you. "We'll follow you".

Ezekiel swung his leg, resting on the seat of his bike as he buckled the helmet over his head, his fingers gripping the ape hangers, feeling the vibration of the engine as he followed the sleek vibrant red of your car. The afternoon he met you, he'd been turmoiled, plagued with the natural uncertainties that came with being a member of the MC. That new patch stitched into the upper corner of his kutte had bought a sense of pride and belonging he hadn't felt in forever, it gave him drive, fueled his determination, but as the saying goes, all that glitters is not good. Expectation deceived him, the reality of all things made clear. And that reality was shoveling makeshift graves for men whose names he couldn't even remember, but he remembered yours. Committed himself to it like the loving kiss he gave to the jar that held the remnants of his mother every time he stepped a foot into his fathers house.

He found you flustered, out of yourself with anxiety in the dimming light of the afternoon, and then at the bar, body rigid, eyes wired and ready to do your worst to a guy who could barely keep his posture straight, and now he was following behind you, backing his bike toward the sidewalk that laid just in front your home.

Upon entry, the knock of the speakers bled a thumping bass that pulsated through the floors. Your home had seemed to expand with every new corner that came into view, the walls pushing back to make room for the swell and scatter of bodies. Sweet smells mixed with more pungent ones, the hazy aroma of weed slipping past him as he walked further into the house. A hand placed itself at his side. It was you.

"Can I get you a drink? A beer or something".

"Yeah a beer is cool".

You intertwined your fingers with his, leading him to the kitchen where the sound settled some. Beer bottles clinked, the air releasing as you opened them, handing one over to him.

He gave a quiet "thanks" before sipping, eyeing the way your lips wrapped around the top of the bottle to taste the liquid. They looked soft, full and alluring. He redirected his gaze before the temptation overtook him to do something impulsive that had the prospect of unnerving you. His eyes flitted to the side of your face, an illustration about two inches or so etched into your skin. He hadn't noticed it till now.

You could feel him staring as you tasted the beer, the heat of it tingling your skin. "It's a dagger".

He reached forward, thumb skimming over the finely crafted design, it was a professionals work. With the simple touch of his thumb, your nerves were riling, heat rushing to pulse under your skin, he could feel it. It drew him closer, lured him in. "Did it hurt?".

"Like hell, but when you've felt more painful shit, tattoos like this don't really compare". You lifted the hem of your top some, bringing his fingers to feel the raised skin there. Four inches or so worth of a healed gash rested under his considerate touch. "Got it when I spent a year and a half inside. Grand theft", you admitted.

The reasoning behind telling him wasn't sound in the slightest bit, but what was reasoning when Ezekiel had awakened such dormant feelings inside you. With those beautiful, sunny colored eyes and the warm hand caressing your side, you were liable to tell everything. Truths you hated and dark secrets that laid deep inside your past. You reached up to lay a kiss to those pouty lips, the feel of them mesmeric, dazing. Fulfillment burdened itself onto you, finally you'd got a taste of that rosy pink bottom lip, and now your body was calling for more. Begging for it with such longing that you licked your way through his mouth, his tongue acting in kind. It was slow and all consuming, his body pressing you into the counter to surround you.

"Come with me", your voice airy. Breathless. You lead him to the back of the house. Your room first on the right. A gasp left you when your feet left the floor, body in his arms as he laid you against the fresh feel of the sheets. You kicked your shoes off with ease but the discarding of other pieces left behind a sinking feeling, a pressure forming in your chest to push down straight into your gut. He was glorious, the plains of his skin bound by rich thick tanned muscles and long veins. The dilation of his pupils darkened the air around him, physique imposing. This is what you’d wanted, Why were you feeling so anxious all of a sudden?

"What's wrong?"

Your body had raced miles ahead of your mind and now you were trying to catch up. "I don't know, I just... I feel..."

"Nervous".

"It's sounds so stupid when you say it out loud".

"But it's not, It's natural, and I'll do whatever you want me to do. Whatever makes you feel comfortable baby".

He sounded so sure of it, it made you believe him. You laid against the pillows, beckoning him with the outstretch of your fingers. "C'mere".

He obeyed, body atop yours, your legs wrapping loosely around his waist as your head tilted up to give those lips another kiss. It was messy this time, fueled by desperation, your tongues slow to lick as they tasted each other's. The remnants of beer still there. He took hold of your lip, sharp teeth pulling before he kissed his way down to the heated flesh of your neck. There he sucked, bombarding your skin with pressure causing your hips to grind against the coarse fabric of his jeans. The thin cotton layer of your underwear leaving you to erupt with a fresh wave of need. He feathered kisses down your body, pushing your legs up and apart to open yourself for him. A shudder drove down your spine, that soft wide tongue of his licking so close to where you needed him. He peeled away your underwear leaving you bare before him.

"Talk to me baby. What do you need".

You could hear the pulse of your heart in your ears. "Take care of me Ezekiel, make me feel good".

He hummed, loving the airiness of your voice. So drenched with need for him you were. He was methodical despite the desire boiling in his blood threatening to burn through his skin, so he'd settled with toying with you for now. Giving that sweet glistening clit teasing licks. They were measured, the constraint of them existing solely to wreck you, to kill your resolve completely till you were reduced to in-apprehensible words filled with air. The wide-ness of his tongue felt so good, your nails running over the faded part of his head as your hips drew tight circles.

The teasing, the game of it all. He didn't know but you loved it so much. "That feels so good baby, so good", you praised.

Your words were disembodied, wandering in another plain of existence as they rolled off your lips. Your senses were bursting at the seems, and then reborn again to erupt on impact when he sucked against your sensitive nub, lapping your slick salaciously. As if he'd been starved for years, only just finding you now. The line of your spine arched, waist swiveling, grinding to meet his wet tongue. A low "fuck" fell in the air as your felt the rise of your impending release. With taut, rough fingers he hooked at the back of your knees, pushing them into the sheets. The action opened you completely to him, no choice but to surrender to his will and the feel of his lips as he drew you closer to the edge.

"Please, I'm so close", you whimpered. Vision splotchy, thump in your ears intensifying.

He sucked at you again, holding his lips still as your body shook. Quivering against the sheets. He reverted back to soft licks, tasting as you rode the high.

He rose when you settled, eyeing the heavy rise and fall of your chest as he did away with his jeans. "You Ok?"

It took you time to register the question but when you did, you threw a pillow at him. "You just sucked the soul out of me, don't ask me that damn question".

He laughed, watching your eyes dim in bliss. You hadn't noticed, but he'd done away with his underwear as well, the weight of him causing the bed to dip as he came up to where you laid. His thick fingers rolled you over, setting your face to rest against the pillows as your hips raised in the air to rest against the hot flesh of his length, the veined skin laying along your slit. You moaned in anticipation, pushing back against him.

He gripped your cheeks, spreading them to see the quivering flesh of your opening, the flushed pink shinning in the dim light of the room. His tongue slipped against his bottom lip again, reveling in the taste of you as he pushed in. He groaned, and you gave a single fleeting "yes" , the thickness of him giving a delicious stretch, rigid length hot as he pushed and pulled in and out of your depths in a slow manner. Wanting to test the waters same as he did moments ago before building you back up again. The squeeze of you made his chest tight, head swimming with delirium.

"You feel so good mama, so tight around me", he groaned.

His thrust were dizzying as they picked up to set a steady pace, your hips rolling and pushing to take him deeper. To reach that place in you that would force your vision to blur and be replaced by disfigured stars. You reach to lay a finger at your overstimulated bundle of nerves, rubbing the soft slick flesh with lazy pleasuring circles that spurred the knot in your gut to grow. A single tear fell to dampen the pillow, your depths tightening at how full you felt, at how unrelenting the stimulation of his strokes were.

The sharp drive of his hips made you go rigid, the vice like grip you formed around him causing him to fall into his own high. Pace going all slow sloppy to ride out the blissful feeling.

He pulled from you, both your body and his collapsing against the bed. His face formed with satisfaction, a beautiful buzz running through him. "You know what this means right?"

"What", you asked.

"We’ll have to see each other around more often now".

[bananaofswifts]

BY: JILLIAN MAPES JUL 27 2020

POP/R&B

Made from afar, primarily with the National’s Aaron Dessner, Swift’s eighth album is a sweater-weather record filled with cinematic love songs and rich fictional details.

The phantom pang of missing someone before you ever meet them is an emotion worthy of its own word. That fated feeling of love and the passage of time is the theme that runs between Carly Rae Jepsen’s smash hit “Call Me Maybe” and the National’s antisocial romance “Slow Show”; it’s also the kind of thing Taylor Swift might write about. One of the loveliest tracks on folklore, the surprise album the singer-songwriter made primarily with the National’s guitarist Aaron Dessner, stands out for a strangely similar reason: a thread connecting two strangers that exists long before either realizes it’s there. “And isn’t it just so pretty to think/All along there was some/Invisible string/Tying you to me,” she sings on the delightfully plucky “invisible string,” simultaneously recalling famous lines from Jane Eyre and The Sun Also Rises.

folklore will forever be known as Taylor Swift’s “indie” album, a sweater-weather record released on a whim in the blue heat of this lonely summer, filled with cinematic love songs in search of a film soundtrack. There are those who already dislike folklore on principle, who assume it’s another calculated attempt on Swift’s part to position her career as just so (how dare she); meanwhile, fans will hold it up as tangible proof that their leader can do just about anything (also a stretch). While it’s true that folklore pushes the limits of Swift’s sound in a particular, perhaps unexpected direction, her reference points feel more like mainstream “indie” homage than innovation, taking cues from her collaborators’ work and bits of nostalgia.

At its best, folklore asserts something that has been true from the start of Swift’s career: Her biggest strength is her storytelling, her well-honed songwriting craft meeting the vivid whimsy of her imagination; the music these stories are set to is subject to change, so long as it can be rooted in these traditions. You can tell that this is what drives Swift by the way she molds her songs: cramming specific details into curious cadences, bending the lines to her will. It’s especially apparent on folklore, where the production—mostly by Dessner, with Jack Antonoff’s pop flair occasionally in the mix—is more minimal than she typically goes for. Her words rise above the sparse pianos, moody guitars, and sweeping orchestration, as quotable as ever.

After years as pop’s most reliable first-person essayist, Swift channels her distinct style into what are essentially works of fiction and autofiction, finding compelling protagonists in a rebellious heiress and a classic teenage love triangle. In “the last great american dynasty,” she tells the story of eccentric debutante Rebekah Harkness, who married into the Standard Oil family and once lived in Swift’s Rhode Island mansion, as a way to celebrate women who “have a marvelous time ruining everything.” Filled with historical details and Americana imagery, you can see the song play out in your mind like a storybook, but it also effectively makes a point about society’s treatment of brash women. Swift cleverly draws a line between Harkness and herself at the end, an idea she fleshes out in a more literal sequel, “mad woman.” Out of all the songs on folklore, “the last great american dynasty” is the all-timer, the instant classic. It sounds like the latter-day National/Taylor mashup you never knew you needed—textural and tastefully majestic, with Fitzgerald-esque lines about filling the pool with champagne instead of drinking all the wine.

With folklore’s teen heartbreak trilogy, Swift circles the same affair from each party’s differing view. “betty” is the story of 17-year-old James trying to win back his girlfriend after cheating, a familiar crime rendered new by the narrator’s genuine remorse and belief in a love regained. It has the youthful hope of a song like “Wide Open Spaces,” yet is noticeably wiser (and queerer) than the high school romances Swift wrote as an actual teenager. First single “cardigan” is told by Betty, whose disillusionment with James results in a sad, sensuous sound reminiscent of Lana Del Rey, down to the vocal style and casual lyrical quotation of another pop song. But the songs’ overlapping details and central framing device—of a cardigan forgotten and found without a second thought—are pure Swift, an instant memory portal not unlike the scarf in Red’s “All Too Well.” (The cutesy marketing angle for “cardigan” is reliably Swiftian as well.) And even though “august” is considered to be the third in the trilogy, the record’s most tender, saccharine love story plays out during “illicit affairs.” “You taught me a secret language I can’t speak with anyone else,” she sings. “And you know damn well for you I would ruin myself.” The scenes and perspectives evoked by these songs alone speak volumes about Swift’s evolution as a songwriter.

The theme of folklore is a very different way of acknowledging that people will talk, an idea that animated 2017’s trap-tinged work of minor villainy, Reputation. Swift knows her own mythology like a model knows her angles, and that’s part of what makes folklore fascinating if you maintain an open mind: a kind of reverse-engineered “mindie” project, it sonically situates her closest to Lana and chamber-pop belter Florence Welch, but may also occasionally remind you of Triple-A radio, Sufjan Stevens if he killed his more ambitious tendencies, or Big Red Machine, Dessner’s duo with Justin Vernon (see: the sparse and soulful “peace”). The album’s actual duet with Vernon, “exile,” is a little like a Bon Iver take on “Falling Slowly,” the centerpiece of the 2007 folk musical Once: awkwardly dragging until the clouds slowly part to allow something beautiful to build. Swift is playing the long game here, and while there are no wild missteps, the album could use some selective pruning (see: “seven,” “hoax”).

It’s worth pointing out that folklore isn’t a total outlier in Swift’s catalog either, or even her recent work. The tracks with Antonoff shift away from the ’80s electro-pop of 1989 and onward, but they lean into the Mazzy Star swoon of Lover’s title track, Swift’s ongoing fascination with Imogen Heap, and a twinge of the Cranberries. There are interesting images, indelible hooks, and real signs of maturity. In the dreamy “mirrorball,” Swift likens the relatability trap of fame to a disco ball, singing of fluttering on tiptoes and trying hard to make it look effortless. “august” is a great, lusty Swift summer anthem about forbidden love, where the up-close, white-hot heat of songs like “Style” or “Getaway Car” is traded for wistful reflection in the rearview. Like the rest of us, Taylor Swift knows she’s had better summers before and she’ll have better summers again. At least she’s made thoughtful use of this one.

[lets-razzle-dazzle-rose]

Best Sewing Machine For Beginners

Figuring out how to sew is a ton like figuring out how to drive. You needn't bother with an extravagant games vehicle to get familiar with the abilities. Truth be told, learning on a more established, solid vehicle is now and again better. However, then again, you do require a vehicle on which the starter, engine, controlling, and slows down work effectively and dependably. There's nothing more baffling than attempting to become familiar with another aptitude when the machinery doesn't function admirably.

So where does that leave the learner sewing fan?

You need a machine that will do a fantastic straight join and crisscross fasten. Those two fastens will do nearly all that you will require. It likewise needs to have a converse. Much the same as a vehicle, you in some cases need to drive forward and at times in reverse.

I purchased a vehicle once without test driving it first. Serious mix-up. Presently I demand test driving the real vehicle I need to buy, not simply one more of a similar make and model however the real one I will be bringing home. Something very similar goes for sewing machines. Test drive before you buy.

The best an incentive for a novice sewing machine is a pre-owned machine. There are ordinarily in life where we need something new, however this isn't one of them. A solid sewing machine vendor that takes exchange ins will ordinarily have a variety of more established machines that have all been adjusted and are all set. These machines have long stretches of utilization left in them and are an incredible speculation.

You don't have the foggiest idea yet in the case of sewing is something you will appreciate or whether it's only a passing trend. Putting $100 into a decent, utilized sewing machine is a lot savvier than buying another $149 mediocre machine.

At the point when you stroll into the sewing machine store, peruse the pre-owned machines and get a staff individual to help you if you can. Let him know/her what you are searching for and what your financial plan is. Try not to let him/her sell you something out of your value run.

Machines that are known to be "acceptable" are ones with brand names like Singer, Elna, Janome, Husqvarna Viking, White, Brother, and Pfaff. I've had individual involvement in White, Singer, Brother, and Elna. They will all vibe somewhat different, much the same as vehicles.

Try not to try and consider the Walmart machine, the Kenmore (some are OK however you are taking your risks), or some other new, modest machine. A decent, hitting new sewing machine will cost $500-$1000 nowadays. If it's new and under $500, I wouldn't take a second look except if it's one of the brands I recorded previously.

You needn't bother with a modernized machine or an embroidery machine yet you do need an electric one. The antique lever machines for the most part work incredible yet you need to focus on figuring out how to sew, not on working the lever. Simply ensure it has an ordinary family unit plug in.

Try not to let claims like "1 Step Buttonholer" fool you. I've had a 1 stage button gap producer on two or three machines and, I really want to make buttonholes "physically". These programmed buttonholers are not as extraordinary as they sound. If they stall out or jumble up, what an awful work it is attempting to tear out those lines! Everything you truly require to make an extraordinary catch gap is a straight join, a crisscross line, forward and invert, and a line length and width alteration.

At the point when test driving the machine, take some texture with you. If you realize you will making pants, take a 6" x 6" or so piece of denim (even cut a piece from an old pair of pants). The sewing machine store will have little bits of light cotton texture for you to test on. Those are fine however if you have a specific kind of task as a main priority, ensure you take some representitive texture.

[ikesenhell]

Summoning Circle XIX

This is a continuation of Summoning Circle and the finale. You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here. NOTE: Tagging @katriniac and @forallyourikemensengokuneeds at their request. Also, there is smut / NSFW content.

She touched down on solid ground and staggered forward, barely catching herself on an outcrop of... rock? What did one even call the shimmering stuff Purgatory was made of? Barely had she righted herself before she tottered backward and dropped hard into the springs. 

Wait. Wait! Surfacing, she realized in one joyous moment that she’d done it. She’d found it. Restraining her laugh, she lapped to the side of the pool and squelched back onto dry land, staring up at the stars shimmering overhead. 

“Alright,” she whispered, shaking her arms dry. “Alright.”

What now? So she was out here, and now... what, exactly, did she think she was doing? All at once her spirits deflated. Okay. Well: step one, get out of Kenshin’s prison. Step two, locate Mitsunari and Mitsuhide. But how exactly did she do that second step? Clasping her hands open and shut, she realized with a start that the book had stayed behind. Of course it had. Nothing could be that easy. 

But... she exhaled, watching the plume of her breath disperse around her. She was out. She’d done it. Clasping her hand around the necklace resting on her chest, she considered her next moves. It didn’t feel possible to just summon them there with the necklace. Eyeing it warily, she even tried--but no. Nothing but a faint pulse in her palm like a heartbeat. 

Off in the distance, something howled. Conventional wisdom said that you stayed where you were when lost, but she was pretty sure conventional wisdom didn’t apply here. Lurching back onto her feet, she jogged in place to get out the drips and set off down the path. 

“I told you,” Yukimura huffed, “She’s not here anymore.”

“This is the last known location of the signal.” Nobunaga stared down his nose at the demon, his presence pulsing ruby through the swirling clouds around them. “And you mean to tell me you don’t have her?”

“Had her.” He frowned, crossing his arms tight. “We had her, and then she disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Mitsuhide asked. “A human does not simply disappear. They aren’t like us.”

“Maybe not, but that’s what happened. She figured out some kind of crazy reverse summoning technique and spirited herself out.”

Mitsunari frowned. “That’s impossible.”

“Apparently not.”

“No one has used that kind of a technique that I know of. It isn’t even written in our records. I would know.” Spreading his hands apart, an illusory book stretched between them, frantically flipping at his behest. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I’d let you go and check, but you know how Kenshin and Shingen feel about--”

“Nobunaga.” Out of the mist came the man himself. Kenshin eyed each of them with barely-concealed suspicion. “I suppose you came for the humans?”

“Where is she?” Mitsuhide managed politeness. “Yukimura said she disappeared.”

“So she did. Made a reverse circle. Wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it.” But that apparently was the least of his worries. “I have another inside there. He’s working on a way to stay the fraying of our barriers and prevent creatures from breaking into the other realm. Were you aware of that? His name is Sasuke.”

“Sasuke?” Mitsunari repeated with a smile. “I know him, but I didn’t think he was here.”

“He is. Apparently the goal of their trip was to find you two.”

Without a word, Mitsuhide opened his map again, staring intently and waiting for that pulse of a signal. Kenshin continued. “I have other concerns, chiefly with that woman. If she managed to create magic purely on her own, with nothing but a single--poorly written--book to reverse engineer, then we are dealing with two highly intelligent humans. So I have a concern.”

Nobunaga hummed. “Do tell.”

“It is no secret that the monsters here are alluring to the curious.” And those mismatched eyes settled straight on Mitsuhide, holding him in his sights as he continued. “And deadly.”

“What are you saying?” Mitsunari cut in. “We don’t mean her any harm.”

“Don’t you?” Kenshin continued, unperturbed. “First you take such a personal interest in a fragile thing, then you involve her and risk her life by maintaining closeness, and now she is so invested that she willingly subjects herself to the horrors of Purgatory, even eschewing the safety of my residence. Is that not endangering her?”

“She makes decisions of her own free will.” Mitsuhide swirled the map under his fingers.

That icy gaze hardened. “You evade my point.”

“No. I don’t.” And he glanced up at last, his yellow eyes flashing. “We’ve tried to prevent this. I even took the extreme of abandoning her, against my better will and Mitsunari’s protests. You cannot ask me to do the same thing twice.”

Mitsunari’s purple eyes shone like a spotlight. “You mean it?”

“I do. I’m so, so sorry Mitsunari. You tried to tell me this was the wrong choice, and I didn’t listen. Please forgive me.”

Kenshin appraised them both sourly. “This will mean her death.”

Nobunaga spoke up. “Their circumstances are not yours, Kenshin. Let me see this other human you have there.”

The fog lifted, and she could see the pathway stretching out before her as she entered what looked like a town. Rather, it was meant to be one--all of the buildings were that same, shimmering purple, like a video game with none of the textures loaded. She tried to rest her hand against the wall of one of the low, thatched roof cottages and watched as her hand phased right through it. Huh. Curious, she took a deep breath and stepped through. 

Inside, the room was small and cozy. A translucent fireplace cast its light around the wavering room, an old wooden table set with dinner for a family that flickered in and out of memory. They wore old clothes--from the seventeen hundreds, maybe?--a mother hunched over a small baby in a makeshift highchair, a hard roll of bread and some stew set out before them. What was this, a memory? An installation? A town that was never finished? She wanted to reach out to them, but it was nothing more than smoke, so she walked outside once more. 

Out in the distance, something howled again. 

Now that sounded like the vampire. Shaking her head, she quickened the pace. Well, Ieyasu’s house hadn’t been too far away from the hot springs, but she didn’t remember passing through the town. There was a chance it was the wrong direction, but--

Something barreled into her. 

Alarmed, she flung her arm, smacking something coarse and hairy straight in a wet nose. Oh no. She didn’t need Mitsunari’s knowledge to draw a hard assumption about what it was snarling over top of her, luminous yellow eyes glaring through the purple mist. Around her, more werewolves howled. 

Frantic, she drew back her leg and kicked it hard in the jaw.

It didn’t expect that. The creature fell back with a dog-like whine, scrabbling back to its hind legs as she rushed for the town again. No good. Five slavering mouths panted and drooled behind her, their hot breath swirling around in pursuit. She was going to die. She was going to die, and Mitsunari and Mitsuhide would never know what became of her--

That stopped her feet. 

She danced to the side as one of them charged toward her, dashing into the house once more to get her bearings. At least they couldn’t see her properly through the walls. Think, think! She wracked her brain for a solution, acting more on instinct than real effort. Could she even draw on Purgatory’s pathways? Taking the marker from her pocket, she started on a sigil on the center of the kitchen table, marveling that she could draw on a memory. God--she had no idea what she was doing, but it was all she had. 

The first one burst through not long after. On a whim, she took the necklace Mitsuhide had given her into her palm and tried to flip the table--and it worked. Instead of phasing straight through, the rough grain of the wood connected with her hand and she flung it into the creature’s face, watching as her sigil flashed and enveloped it completely. 

“Fuck yeah!” She did a jig until another one broke through. Damnit. Necklace still in hand, she grabbed the table from the floor and wrenched it back with all her might, using it as a shield. That one fell through as well, but as soon as it did, the sigil faded from the surface. “Fuck!”

Outside, three more prowled. She could feel their huffs of breath through the walls. Slicking back her hair, she uncapped the marker and drew again. 

“It’s as simple as an algebra problem,” Sasuke explained. “Really.”

The three demons and vjelko in the room with him stared as if he were the cosmic abnormality, not them. He sighed politely and arranged his diagrams on the table. “So you are summoned by a specific set of symbols in a pre-arranged pattern, yes?”

“Correct.” Nobunaga agreed impatiently. “You’re saying that just another sigil should lock the holes in the barrier, but I’m here to advise you that we’ve never had much luck with that.”

Sasuke shrugged and shoved his glasses back up his nose. “I’m willing to try and publish my findings for replication.”

“Do what?” Kenshin asked, then irritably changed his tune. “Nevermind. Do you have any success yet?”

“I have some theories. I haven’t implemented them yet as it would require having access to one of these tears, and I cannot personally navigate Purgatory.” But he patted a hand over a machine sitting on the desk. “I am at least seventy-two percent confident that this should work, provided I have your assistance.”

“How so?”

“Well, clearly you don’t have much in the way of batteries here, nor can I just hook it up to an outlet. Solar power is right out, as is wind. However, I think a basic source of nuclear power should service it perfectly fine.” Sasuke motioned to some of his notes. “And as best as I can tell, the way the demons I’ve observed here have manipulated matter appears to be through a variant form of nuclear fission.”

“So you want one of us to power it?” Mitsunari asked, his eyes wide. “That’s brilliant!”

“Yes, though I suspect it would take a long-term investment on the part of whomever volunteered to power it.”

The men were all silent for a long moment. At last, Kenshin squinted at Sasuke. “If it doesn’t work, can we stop?”

“Of course.”

That was all he asked. Quietly, he announced, “Then I will do it.”

Out of nowhere, Nobunaga’s eyes dilated. Sniffing the air, he turned toward Mitsuhide and Mitsunari. “Does your woman frequently use sigil magic?”

“Not that we know of,” Mitsuhide answered.

“Though apparently,” Mitsunari added, motioning at the remains of the circle drawn behind them, “We could be surprised.”

The Vjelko chuckled. “You’re about to be. Someone is running rampant with it in the Ghostly Township, and I have a feeling it is who we are looking for. Sasuke, Kenshin--if you don’t want the barrier to be ripped open further from all the activity, I’d suggest you get a move on with that.”

A third one burst through the wall and the sigil exploded, which she hadn’t expected. The creature screamed bloody murder and fell back out, its fur a wild orange blaze. Around her, the house shivered. Was it becoming more solid? That didn’t bode well. God, if only she had Sasuke here to theorize. 

But she didn’t. She just had two more werewolves prowling around the house, a marker, and a suddenly very real table in her grasp. When had that happened?

“Alright, you fuzzy fucks,” she mumbled, scrawling another circle onto its wooden surface. “Try and get me.”

As if it heard her, a fourth one plowed through the wall, and this time it splintered rather than just allowing passage back and forth. She screamed and wrenched the table between them. Kra-kow! Icicles shot like bullets, snapping her table and putting the beast down in one.

“Damnit.” She thrust the useless half of the table down, still clutching the marker tight. Now she was good and trapped if she decided to remain in the house, and the only way out was now that hole. One more werewolf prowled out there somewhere, but it was the only chance she had. It wasn’t as if she could hide here. Screwing down her resolve, she sprinted out of the hole in the wall. 

Sure enough, barely had she cleared the wall before a massive, clawed hand swiped down and took a chunk out of her arm. She screamed and collapsed to her knees. Get up! Rolling to the side saved her life; the creature leaped bodily onto where she’d just been kneeling, saliva spraying from a hungering maw. She struggled for her marker, trying to draw something, but her arm wouldn’t respond.

Someone stepped in front of her. 

“You don’t touch her.” Mitsuhide swept out his arm, a swirling mass of energy pooling in his palm, and the light blinded her. The werewolf’s frantic squeal echoed out through Purgatory, and then--nothing. Her eyes adjusted again, the light gone, and two sets of arms wrapped around her. 

Mitsunari whispered, kissing her forehead, “Are you okay?” 

“Y-y-yes,” she managed, still too shocked for coherent thought. “Hi, Honey.”

His petal-soft breath hitched against her ear. “I still get to be Honey?”

“Yes, Honey, always.”

“I’m so sorry.” Mitsuhide kissed her bloody shoulder, prying away strips of her ruined sleeve. “I’m so, so, so sorry. I thought you would be safer. I thought you could just forget us. I’m so sorry, please forgive me--”

Words failed her. Instead she leaned heavily into his arms, resting her forehead against the curve of Mitsuhide’s neck, and he fell silent. It’s okay, she thought, but the sounds wouldn’t come out, so she just kissed the exposed edge of his collarbone instead. Something dripped hot onto her cheek and she wondered for a moment what that was, but--no, it was Mitsuhide, and he was crying against her. She squeezed his arm. 

“We love you, Honey,” Mitsunari soothed her, petting her hair. “We love you. You’re safe.”

Sasuke set up the machine on the edge of the township, angling it toward the house that steadily became more real. Kenshin tied up his sleeves.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Sasuke offered for the thousandth time. “If anyone else might want to do it--”

“I owe it to someone,” Kenshin snapped. “If not for me, she might have lived.”

He didn’t ask again. Instead he switched the machine on. The demon reached out his arm and forced a beam of light into it, and it whirred into life, projecting a thousand sigils across the far reaches of Purgatory like a beacon, forming a massive web of orange energy. 

They spent three days doting on her. 

Every time she woke, Mitsunari or Mitsuhide were there, if not both, changing her bandages and presenting her with something lovely to eat. Ieyasu visited frequently to check on her arm. Even he seemed less sour now. 

“What you did was sort of impressive,” he mumbled. “Kind of.”

After he left, Mitsunari wrapped a gentle hand around her throat, drawing a fine line with his thumbnail down her skin. “Whose are you?”

“I’m yours,” she murmured against his mouth. With a teasing smile, he bit down onto her lower lip. 

“Of course you are, Honey.”

Sasuke visited one day, drawing up a chair beside her bed. “So we successfully stayed the fraying of the barrier. It would be safe for us to go home now--but there is a catch.”

“What’s that?”

“Well.” He shoved his glasses back up his nose. “For any walking back and forth between the barriers, it is necessary to shut the machine on and off. While that is possible, it also is quite a bit of exertion onto Kenshin, and I think it would be best to avoid that.”

“So what you’re saying is that when we go, we’re basically gone.”

“Correct.”

It didn’t feel like much of a choice. She stared out the window before her, watching the stars of Purgatory swirl around, the rivers of dreams flowing in a silver stream. What a beautiful, terrifying, incredible place it was--and she was alright with that. “Then I’m staying.”

Sasuke didn’t fight her. He just smiled his typical muted smile. “I thought you might say that. Purgatory is a fascinating source of study and research. I’m going to stay myself, then.”

When she finally felt better, Mitsunari and Mitsuhide prepared a home made meal for her on the balcony. 

“Masamune had to make it.” Mitsunari admitted. “We don’t know how to cook on Earth, let alone here in Purgatory. We’ll have to make a number of allowances in regard to food preparation to make sure you have something to eat.”

“But that won’t be difficult.” Mitsuhide took a long draught of some silver-black liquid, eyeing her. “Did you enjoy it?”

She smiled up at them, wearing a beautiful black dress they’d gathered for them. “It was delicious.”

“Perfect. And now--”

“Now,” Mitsunari grinned, his eyes sharpening, “We have to punish you for scaring us.”

“Scaring you? You two scared me!” She scoffed, but Mitsuhide gently cupped his hand over her mouth. 

“Shhh,” he murmured. “Precious things like you don’t get to talk right now.”

Oh. Her pulse quickened as their hungry eyes bored through her. Without further ado, Mitsuhide swept her up from the chair and carried her back inside, setting her in Mitsunari’s lap on the bed. Together, their practiced hands peeled the dress from her body, dropping it in gentle swaths to the floor. 

“My love,” Mitsuhide murmured, kneeling between her legs. “There is nothing in the world I can do to make everything up to you.”

“I thought I was the one getting punished, not you?” She managed, her breath hitching.

“Well,” Mitsunari offered, his bright voice entirely at odds with the leash he produced in his hand. “You could fix that. I can punish the both of you.”

She fixed the collar back around Mitsuhide’s neck and gave him a gentle tug on the leash, watching his yellow eyes go hazy. Eagerly he dove between her legs, clutching at her thighs and running his tongue along the slit of her. 

“O-o-ohhhhh,” she gasped, writhing back against Mitsunari. The other demon laughed and cupped his hand around her throat. 

“What a good little plaything you are,” he crooned, soft and sweet in her ear. “I do enjoy using you. You’re my little toy.”

“Yes,” she gasped, her soul practically vibrating out of her body from Mitsuhide’s attentions to her sex. “Yes, yes, yes. I’m your toy.”

“Good girl. Good, good girl.”

Mitsunari liberated the leash from her hand and jerked on it. Mitsuhide growled in protest but obeyed anyway, rising between her legs to his partner, and from there, they kissed each other. She watched Mitsunari run his tongue over Mitsuhide’s dripping lower lip, absorbed in the taste of her, and it made her heart burn with desire. 

“Honey,” Mitsunari whispered to her, grinning like the devil, “Do you want more?”

“Yes, please.”

“Then you can undress me.”

Her hands shook as she undid his robe, and barely had the fabric left his shoulders before he pulled her up into his lap and lowered her onto his cock. She groaned, barely able to take all of him. Mitsunari tugged the leash again. “Get down there and get back to work.”

It was almost too much to take. Mitsuhide’s mouth sucked on the tiny bud of her, the whole of Mitsunari sliding in and out of her, glorious pressure hitting every sensitive part of her. She cried out and writhed, but he pinned her back against his chest with a hand to her throat, nipping at her ear. “Are you happy?”

“Oh my god,” she managed, her voice cracking with pleasure. “Oh my god, yes.”

“Thank me.”

“Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you--”

Mitsuhide played the tip of his tongue along one especially sensitive part of her and she screamed, finally releasing, her mind swirling into some heavenly place. Both of the men stilled until she stopped writhing. 

“Aw, look at her,” Mitsunari crooned, brushing her hair from her face. “I think more would break her.”

“Please,” she gasped, almost insane with need. “Please.”

Mitsuhide rose and unclasped the collar from his neck, setting it around hers with a final click. It felt so right that she didn’t resist. With practiced ease, the men transferred her onto him and she cried out as she sank down onto Mitsuhide, Mitsunari following again only a moment later. 

“I love you,” she babbled incoherently, “I love you. I love you. I love you both. Please don’t leave me.”

“My sweet, sweet Princess,” Mitsuhide whispered, tugging meaningfully on her collar. “Don’t imagine that we ever will.”

[leopardprinttrashchild]

Tagged by @tehlastunicron​

The Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Pick out the title that most intrigues you, or interests you and I’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it!!

oh boy here we go, loosely organized by fandom

YOI

otayuri demon thing?? “Do I look like a fucking demon to you?” Otabek considered the figure pacing back and forth in his circle, haphazardly bound between the smudged chalk lines. Nothing stayed in place here: water stains warped the floorboards and smeared the walls with leering shadows, and dust crept over everything like a promise of what was to come. Large green eyes, golden hair, delicate features chiseled from porcelain skin - his clothing was simple, nothing more than loose trousers and a creamy linen tunic that hinted at the texture of feathers. His smile was sharp. “Yes,” replied Otabek, careful not to let anything other than cold certainty show in his voice. “You do.”

half life 

sick fic

The Butterfly Effect

Pillow Talk

Hold Your Breath (Count to Ten) Déjà vu: a feeling of familiarity, the sensation that a current situation has happened before. Otabek thought about the phrase as he packed. He looked it over along with his shirts and shoes, working through his mental checklist of will I use this or will it simply take up space, checking for rips and wear. In the end, he discarded déjà vu along with a pair of torn jeans and an old jacket. Like the coat, déjà vu was too small; it didn't fit. There must have been another word for it, he decided, one that didn't imply merely the sensation of repetition but its actuality. The distance between Almaty and St. Petersburg had been daunting the first time he left. Now, with his passport filled with stamps from more countries than he had the patience to count, moving was barely more notable than walking around the block.

Otabek Leo JJ friendship (Tone Deaf Anthems)

Disasterbek college AU 

steampunk otayuri The deck was too exposed, and Otabek nearly gasped with relief to see the unlocked hatch that would grant him access to the lower decks. Or deck, rather. This was no luxury cruiser, Otabek thought ruefully, surveying the tiny room. The bow and stern were still half-full of miscellaneous freight, leaving barely enough space for him to stretch his arms. It smelled of burnt aether, hot and heavy, and the only light filtered through small portholes set on either side. In the center, the engine hummed and whirred, inhaling and exhaling like a living creature. Though the workings were ensconced in their metal sheath, Otabek could hear gears clicking and the soft whoosh of steam. It would have been a mechanical marvel in its heyday, but it would take more than an expert to keep it in top condition. "Sorry," Otabek murmured, prying open a maintenance hatch and reached into the toolkit hanging from his belt. One pressure valve would do it, he decided, and it was only a few seconds' work to reroute the steam and coolant to the auxiliary system. It would be several thousand verst before the effects became noticeable.

Get Wrecked Yuri was not a morning person. If you asked Mila (or Viktor, or Georgi, or probably anyone aside from Yuri’s grandfather who had ever met him or even heard of him), he wasn’t an afternoon, evening, or night person either. If you asked fifteen-year-old Yuri, he’d tell you that he was more of a dark entity than a person at all. Anyway, the fact was that everyone, from any point in time, would agree that Yuri Nikolaevich Plisetsky was not at his best early in the day. 

An Empty Sun

Voltron

some sad vld shit (official title: Negative Space) It wasn’t so much a room as it was the idea of a room. Keith looked around. A doorway flickered in the corner of his vision, but when he turned toward it, there was no hint of anything other than a blank wall. He stepped forward, searching for any hint of a mark on its smooth paint. It shuddered and gave under his fingers. Keith jerked back, suddenly sure that whatever held this space together would fade into nothing all around him, leaving only a featureless plane.

reverse kerberos

bodyguard au

you meant the world to me (but you could never be the stars)

Shiro isn’t dead

Original

dear author "Vivian," breathed Seebs, her blue eyes wide in the dim glow cast by the streetlight's flickering bulb. She looked every inch the heroine, blonde and wholesome and just a little bit badass. "You can't be- you're-" A plot device, that's what she was, in the midst of her own grand introduction into Cassidy - Cass to her friends, Seebs to Viv - Biram's story. Was all of that real? As real as this was, Viv suspected, and maybe more so. She'd seen the words - the words that built her, defined her, constrained her. 

Ocean rewrite

The Femme Fatale They called her the femme fatale; not because they thought her beautiful, but because they thought it would hurt her that they didn't. And maybe it would have, if she hadn't seen what they did to things they found pretty - tears of the younger students, the ones with bright hair and shining eyes, shimmering wings torn from the starflies scattered across desks, perfect flowers trapped in bubbles and bobbles. No, she knew even then that it was easier not to be beautiful.

Futuristic vampire/werewolf mystery thriller

( @kinoglowworm​ if you wanna do it) 

[artvinyl]

Uncovered: ‘As the Love Continues’ by Mogwai

Cardiff-based designer and illustrator DLT (Dave Thomas) has been creating record cover art for many years and has consistently found his work shortlisted for the Best Art Vinyl Award - nominated in 2008, 2011 and 2014. No surprise then that his cover art for Scottish post-rock band Mogwai’s tenth studio album As the Love Continues found its way to the final 50 for Best Art Vinyl 2021. We caught up with Dave to understand the inspirations and creative process behind his artwork for this record.

DLT explains, “I have a long relationship working on Mogwai’s album artwork stretching back to around the ‘Mr Beast’ album in 2006. Each album, whether it is a new studio album or a soundtrack to a TV series or film, comes with a different set of challenges and ways of representing the albums visually. Initially it's always a collaborative process where I talk to the band to pick up on any themes, subjects, ideas that have driven how the music for each release is created. I think we’ve built a level of trust over the years which has meant that they pretty much give me freedom to interpret the music in any way that fits. Even before working with the band I was a fan of their music, right from the early releases, so it’s still an honour and so exciting to be involved in the part of the process of creating their albums. I tend to listen to the tracks as the band is writing and recording to get a sense of what might fit in terms of visuals. As the majority of the music is of course instrumental and the track titles tend to be decided on later in the process, it really is about coming up with a direction for the artwork that captures the right feeling or mood. I guess I always try to imagine it almost as if I’m reverse engineering a film in my mind from the soundtrack and the artwork could be a still from that.”   

‘The Beast’ album cover 2006

“For this new album, As The Love Continues', I wanted to further develop the idea of making the artwork more textural and multi layered, a way of visually representing the intricate layers of sound the band creates. The title ‘As the Love Continues’ to me, evoked ideas of memory and images capturing a moment in time.  I have a big collection of old photos, glass negatives and slides sitting around in boxes, found in house clearances or antique markets.  A lot of these found photos are damaged or scratched and I love those little things you notice between the damage where you see a detail, a place or an object or an emotion on someone’s face coming out from the background. I wanted to capture those moments by overlaying images, digitally reimagining how I might chemically process photos or how they’d look projecting them over the top of each other in a dark room for the first time - all the supposed errors, scratches, colour bleeds and cracks left in to form part of a new image.  I like the idea that the images had the feeling of little snapshots that only existed for a moment before the film melted or the chemical degraded it out of all recognition.”  

As the Love Continues - additional artwork

“The arctic fox on the cover image I actually sourced from an online archive of Russian glass negative photos from the late 1800’s, it was an image I first saw years ago and always found it really striking. I just kept coming back to this image as there was something about it that captured the intensity and feeling that I wanted to capture for the album, so I felt it would be perfect to use. So I incorporated the image of original glass negative and processed it into other colour layers and textures I had from my other collections to create the final cover, the fox appearing through the layers of textures. The typography was also created to match the overall feel of over-layed and slightly out of line layers.”

“I always try to incorporate lettering into the style of the imagery rather than it being treated as a separate entity, so this time the letter shapes were quite crudely sliced up and repositioned by hand as part of the dense layers of the artwork.”

As the Love Continues by Mogwai on Rock Action Records in the UK is nominated for Best Art Vinyl 2021. Cover art by Dave Thomas aka DLT

VOTE NOW

[renaroo]

Cass and Harper, #4

A Gentle Stroke

Disclaimer: Batman and associated characters are the creative property of DC Comics. Warnings: Bi Butterflies and feeeeelingsRating: TPairings: Cassandra Cain/Harper Row

A/N: Sorry for the wait, this week got crazy but this was fun to write and it’s been a good while since I wrote this ship or even just Harper in general so thank you so much for the prompt! It was a lot of fun!

When it happened, Bluebird was almost certain it had been an accident.

They were celebrating, in the short breathless way that vigilantes of Gotham did after finishing off a particularly dangerous mission together. It had been a long time since Harper Row and donned the suit she once crafted with her own hands and got herself dirty for the sake of the city, but she remembered how these sorts of things went. A wisp of condensed breath in the brittle harbor winds, the easy glances between friends behind masks, smiles of accomplishment hidden underneath labored breaths.

There was a real sense of you did good, kid, hanging between herself and the enigmatic Orphan.

Foundations of friendship, embittered ties tested by a twisted past. They were young women, but they carried the aged old souls of soldiers from their lives.

Harper was never really one who was lost on words so she began to say something in turn toward Cassandra. Ask her how much of her larger perp count came from watching over Harper’s rusty back. But those were words which didn’t come out because the aptly named Orphan was moving in toward her first.

The question of what was in Harper’s throat and she was ready to turn around expectantly for someone they missed coming at her. But there was no time for thought or movement or even response because…

Cassandra’s mask had been lifted, just over to the bridge of her nose, over her chin and her chapped lips.

And then her gloved hand was on Harper’s cheek, presenting the most gentle of caresses while a small but certain smile of thanks matching on Cass’ face.

The other girl had wanted Harper to see her mouth, the slight flush in her cheeks or the way the cold air steamed out from between her teeth. And she wanted the unguarded parts of Harper’s cheeks to feel the roughness of leather wrapped around her fingers and the texture of the stitches which held the glove together.

It was the most gentle of touches, a stroke with the palm of Cassandra’s hand, and it was so tender and warm in the moment that Harper forgot they were behind a warehouse on the Dixon Harbor surrounded by unconscious felons with a penchant for illegal firearms.

And then Cass moved on, probably certain of some alert system or police contact or something that was about to break up the moment between them anyway. It was hard telling with Cass sometimes.

So Harper was left instead, a bit dumbfounded and oblivious. She was taken off guard because there was almost nothing that could be counted as normal with the situation at hand. After all, when had it ever been normal social etiquette to do that let alone then?

Overthinking like it was her third major, Harper considered that Cass’ understanding of social norms was something they were still working on even a few years later and that there was a certain loving nature with the girl that had endeared her to everyone in spite of or even because of the horrors of her past. It wasn’t as if she could just assume what was meant by Cassandra’s caress. It was just a gentle touch, a stroke, a gesture that was going to cause Harper to lose every semblance of sense in her very, very bi mind at that moment.

The dumbfounded nature she was showing was more than a little uncharacteristic and as such, she was quick to snap herself out of it once she glanced up and saw that Cassandra, fully masked again, had actually double backed from her disappearing trick and was looking worriedly toward Harper for having not already followed. A well deserved amount of scrutiny to say the least.

Plus, the police sirens were closing in.

“Keep your shit together, Row,” Harper grimaced, smacking herself in the forehead before jogging toward the very shadows that Cass had already picked for their escape.

Once they left the scene of their triumph, an uncomfortable silence fell between Bluebird and Orphan. The kind where one was not quite sure what to make of the other’s without thinking to break they own vow.

Awkward, Harper’s mind finally decided on. Awkward was the name of their game. And Harper kind of hated it.

One of the things which had most defined their friendship and, in turn, had made Harper the happiest about having gotten Cass in her life, was the fact that there really hadn’t been anything left to get awkward about. The bonds they forged in spite of how the past tried to define them and their relationship had put them beyond those sorts of things.

It was why a retired Harper Row, rusty and sleep deprived from a few semesters of engineering finals, was willing to take a week night and roam streets and rooftops as Bluebird. Because that was just how comfortable that Cassandra, the Orphan, made her.

No one in the world was safer in those days than they were under Cass’ wing.

So why did that same generosity and gentleness make everything so damn awkward back there.

A far enough distance away from their fighting grounds, Harper, already a few strides behind Cass, skidded to a stop and held up her hands as her head shook. “Okay, okay, okay. Stop. Wait. Reverse. We need to go back to a few moments ago.”

Gracefully, Cassandra turned on her heels and faced Harper. Even beneath her face mask, there was a notable sense of confusion.

“What did you… lose? Cass asked, fumbling a bit with the last word from a lack of regular use.

“I didn’t lose anything,” Harper assured her. “We don’t have to, like, physically get back there. I just. Well. I might have to recalibrate some of my meters here.” She knew the analogy was utterly lost on Cassandra, but the girl showed the usual patience of a saint anyway. Harper made a distinct note in her mind to cash in some of her IOU’s built up from Tim and Steph to demand one of them explain the concept of gaydar to their friend.

“Okay?” Cassandra said, shifting her weight on to the balls of her feet then resting back.

Like everything else Cassandra did in her life, each motion was calculated, every muscle restrained. There was purpose in the stretch of every fiber of her being.

Which was the issue or the not issue of the moment because if everything had purpose and meaning then there was a purpose or meaning behind the stroke of a hand and if that happened then, well, Cassandra had done something vey deliberate. But why. Because Harper wasn’t sure if anything Cass meant was what Harper and most people would think was meant and—

She was overthinking again.

“Harper?” Cass asked curiously.

There was caution and control in Cassandra’s voice. She said Harper’s name and not her codename which was also layered in meaning and personalbility not often used in the field. And then there was the simple emotion of the moment, like she didn’t understand what Harper was doing either. Which was bad, because Harper didn’t know what she was doing or why she was so thrown by a moment of intimacy which was…

And that was when Harper’s mind hit pause again and the reason she was so startled was because that touch and that moment felt like something truly intimate and more than anything Harper had shared with another person in a very long time and she—

Her very, very bi brain needed to know if she was misreading things. Because that was what very, very bi brains sometimes did.

“Orphan,” Harper started, but then realized that it was misleadingly formal since the formality ice had been broken by Cass already. “Cassie,” which was way too casual and honestly she couldn’t remember if anyone had ever non-jokingly called Cass that before. There was something very broken about Harper’s incredibly bi brain at that point. “Listen. Cass.”

For her part, Cassandra stood quietly and patiently, head somewhat tilted. She said nothing, but it wasn’t like that was exactly abnormal.

“Cass, you and I. What I mean. Back there,” Harper waved toward the docks and froze because coherency was suddenly far more difficult than her physics homework. “Shit.” And when that made Cassandra’s head tilt in the other direction, Harper’s heartbeat increased almost tenfold. “Uh. Good job?”

That, at least, earned a soft smile and Cass nodded. “You too.”

They stood opposite of each other for a few more moments, awkwardness on top of additional awkwardness.

“So. You like,” Harper paused again and sorted through nerves before motioning to her cheek that still felt a bit warm despite thermodynamics not quite working that way. “You touched me.”

“Yes,” Cass answered back in a sort of very nonchalant way that could have gutted a lesser bisexual immediately.

Harper, by necessity though, was built of stronger stuff. “Was that like… what kind of touch did you think it was?”

Suddenly, Cassandra looked incredibly confused. “… types of… touches?” she tried to clarify.

“Yeah, sorry, this is weird, but I won’t sleep for the next two days already because of that coffee habit I can’t kick and if I’m thinking about this and not, like, exams coming up then I will be an actual bisexual disaster and no one really wants to see that, let’s be real,” Harper chattered on like a deranged woman with blue hair and a taser built like a bazooka strapped to her back.

“Okay?” Cass continued. “Still don’t… really understand?”

“The touch, the hand… thing. I need to know. Why? Is it just… something you do or is it like… offering a hand in marriage? Or… more likely it’s very mild and something in between there?” Harper pressed.

Cass’ chin tilted up and she nodded sagely. “Ah, yes.”

“Yes what? Cass, I’m going to have a breakdown here we need specifics,” Harper nearly hyperventilated.

“I want you to know… you did good. And I’m proud,” Cass explained. “So… showed you.”

And, in that moment, Harper could not have been more deflated. “Oh,” she said. Then, internally, she used very bad words to curse her stupid very, very bi brain for the teases.

“Because I like you?” Cass continued, suddenly adding some of her own awkward by rubbing at her neck. “So… yes?”

Harper’s heart nearly grew three sizes that day as she straightened up and felt her cheek warm up. “Oh! Yes!” Harper laughed, turning to a puddle of feelings as Cass reached over again and stroked her cheek once more. “I knew it the whole time.”

[bakafresh]

The Very Best Mens T ShirtsYou Can Purchase

T-shirts are absolutely crucial to an individual's wardrobe. They are owned by everybody everyone wears themand there are an infinite number of options. Slim it down and we decided to cut out all of the sounds since only about every model has its own own version.

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I wasn't hoping to get such a favourable experience before studying the Brooklinen Prospect Tee. Just any t shirts can be thought of comfortable for some level, therefore I figured Brooklinen's wouldn't be substantially different. After all, it is a shirt.

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Rhone is one of the major start-ups in the menswear distance, therefore that it's no real surprise they've identified how exactly to generate a shirt that is fantastic. The newest delivers a selection of efficiency t shirts, some specifically but the Reign T-shirt is its best for all-around efficiency. Obtain your cloth on line.

The newest doesn't make mention of this t shirts being stretchy, however its own combination of cotton, cotton, and spandex clothing does possess an impressive quantity of stretch. This material contains GoldFusion engineering to fight with human body odor, and is.

[robinswky490]

Farm Expert 17 PC what's new in the latest installment of the game

As a baby, made anyone forever dream of growing up up to become a farmer, waste your morning charging about the support yard with your own toy tractor with trying to see sheep in a regional field to bring back home with you? No, right me? Very never mind, even if it live the childhood ambition, Farm Expert 2017 provides the chance to own and go your very own farm! The experience is nicely varied, with you having to fully prepare fields before plants can be swelled, to ensuring you sell livestock or they grow very former with fail, that competition will undoubtedly increase the organisational skills.

Farm Expert 17's been hidden, grew and brought in by Silden and sold on the local produce market by PlayWay S.A.,FE17 certainly gain many initial appeal if you have a good simulation game. The game boasts some rather beneficial look as far as the weather is concerned, a suit soundtrack each time you fly in to your tractor with enough to do to hold people tiling away for hours on end.

However, these features are permitted behind with some unfortunate and persistent bugs, along with some rather horrendous restrictions and physics for the automobiles. And although it is very varied, it goes through from a lack of depth which could give you a little underwhelmed. There is and a multiplayer element for the sport, while getting this to actually production remains more akin to dark magic than computer games.

With no account to bring let's get right because of the nitty-gritty of what you can do from the entertainment. Because there is a good bit. Immediately before I properly start, I do first want to come orderly and point out that this became my head ever real farming sim game (unless I could count Stardew Valley?) so I want to move in advance with declare sorry for any really noob-like comments. Run about…

Setting up is very cool, after pack in you're satisfied with a menu asking to make a report which is only a theme of establishing a choose then leaving by near. FE17 bear a handful of means you can pick by including Free Roam and Multiplayer (I'll talk more about the multiplayer in a minute). For me, however, the first go-to area survived the Course. There's a bit of a language screen with approximately incorrect stretch and grammar, but when you move past that that all pretty simple. That worked out, but, show us almost ten minutes to understand how to help slow since I stupidly believed it was a simple WASD setup rather than having to press Z first in order to change direction. But behind these hiccups, I did find myself enjoying the game. There's something strangely satisfying about having to go through the motions of reversing up to a piece of equipment, problem this up, folding this left and then merrily tootling along to help your own ground designed for a being work.

After I had mastered the basics of truly pushing and farming, I jump right into work my own fully-fledged farm. You get several options to choose from, basically ranging from Easy to Hard. Naturally, as a whole amateur, I took the Cool solution. Thanks to our decision I started out with a great the lot of money and a serious healthy sum of procedures already in my possession, so I could push on with buying the main field, gathering a few crops and addressing work. I found myself rather enjoying our generation as a player, finally getting the objective of appeal a tractor.

Though, I slowly began to notice some issues. For beginners, the naming of the procedures is simply farmsimulator.eu/farming-simulator-2013-download/ not up to scratch, especially on the roads that you'd think will be even but for many ungodly reason affect your vehicles to push along constantly. The game and makes seem to factor in the improved weight of features which you hitch against your tractor, allowing you to increase by a lot the same rate as you usually would. After a while, I learned that the physics from the competition might result in some very horrendous cock-ups.

And later on, I too found out that the ground really got no impact on the swiftness of the vehicle, allowing you to charge full speed up high pile and go on your own mini-adventure…

So agreed, the real physics in the sport put great to be desired. But the actual gameplay is pretty varied. So if you don't want to just take in seed and gathering crops all the time, then no worries! You can begin animal husbandry with a few different choices for which animals to hold and ensuring and keep them fed as well as offering them for meat before they crash of childhood time. Or you may grow orchards to make your delicious fruit, having to fertilize and collect the crop yourself, and even have to lug the container to your truck! But maybe you do want to remain with fine old-fashioned crop farming, in which case you have to take your crops depending on the season, carefully cultivate fields properly and then make sure not to rush them over before more they'll be overcome!

There's also vehicle preservation and concentration to take in thought, so you have to soak up your tractor with gasoline to keep this getting, make sure that polite with innocent (as apparently, that is key for tractors?) as well as repair or strengthen that immediately with again to make life easier.

Pretty varied, just? Right. Unfortunately, this variety does not turn to power or order. So of course, you can increase the crops, care for creatures and grow fruit orchards. But there's no mixture in value in the looks, so there's no need to look around for better believe or trade value because every shop will give the same results. This lack of economy frankly lets down the entire treat. Your pets do have to food, but not any run or time away from their pens. You never also need to feed them yourself because something you buy gets automatically moved to the pencils with the pets somehow get admission for the food themselves. And with orchards, after vegetable and fertilizing them there's nobody else you really need to do until they're prepared to be choose. That lack of depth turns the game into new of your calendar watching experience.

You can hire a workforce to help you out, watching them start the production is vaguely interesting at first, but shortly loses its novelty. Other NPCs in the competition don't provide any relationship and basically, show to now look at and give the world a semblance of soul. Without success, I must tell.

There is too supposed to be a multiplayer side for the game, but lord only gets how we could in fact meet people. I've trawled many forums with further having related problems with no resolution forthcoming. Multiplayer is great that is added last minute, so perhaps it will be improved in the future?

The first thing I'd involvement is how the game does not really boast the most outstanding images, with some of the textures looking very awkward and a significant few popping issues going on. But I'd believe the vehicles looked very decent generally, and the weather effects were reasonably well done. There's something oddly fascinating about watching puddles found with a field while it's raining.

It also includes several terra-forming effects as well, so when you're making the take some of the machines you use actually kind trenches and other alterations in the earth, that changes how your car may need over them, that is pretty clever. And by what I understand from complete a little of delivering, anything which doesn't take place now Farming Simulator activity or different competitors. Character types are attractive plain and forgettable, but in addition to the useless NPCs, there's not really enough characters around to take much notice.

I myself acquired the soundtrack really enjoyable. There was something mildly entertaining about the music starting up each time you flew into the tractor. The fact the firm of your own engine changes counting at whether your inside or outside the car was quite neat too. However, once you detected the cycling sound cause, that begins to become a bit annoying. And, when you got out of the tractor the figure would for some reason believe they were start also brand the right sound. As well as that a handful of the vehicles which allowed absolutely no doors still played the door closing sound each time you got off. A complaint for me, but still a bug.

Due to our lack of exposure to previous farming sim games, I found myself enjoying Farm Expert 17 at first, but the moment I had partaken to all the changed tasks I found myself getting bored really fast. And eventually a number of the mistake may confirm to be quite frustrating. If that contest was a bit more cleaned and contained about extent added to that, i would surely charge this higher. The multiplayer certainly feels tacked going on with the full experience only becomes somewhat of a drag eventually.

[robsonnwty900-blog]

What else you know about Farm Expert 2017

As a youngster, did anyone actually dream of increasing up to become a farmer, wasting your date charging near the support garden on your toy tractor with attempting to catch sheep in a regional field to bring home with you? No, right us? So never mind, even though this was there the childhood ambition, Farm Expert 2017 gives you the possibility to have then control your very own farm! The action is nicely varied, with you having to fully prepare fields before plants can be expanded, to making sure you sell livestock before they move very ancient with go down, that competition will certainly boost the organisational skills.

Farm Expert 2017's been buried, cultivated and gathered by Silden and sold on the local produce industry by PlayWay S.A.,FE17 certainly experience a little preliminary appeal for those who have a good simulation game. The game boasts some rather beneficial impression as far as the weather is concerned, a ready soundtrack each time you hop into the tractor and ample to do and keep people tiling away for hours on end.

However, all these pieces are allowed behind beside approximately unfortunate and persistent bugs, together with some very horrendous running and physics for the vehicles. And though it is very varied, it suffers from the lack of depth which could give a little underwhelmed. There is also a multiplayer look to the game, though causing it to actually work becomes far more akin to dark secret than computer games.

With no story to talk about let's walk well down to the nitty-gritty of what we can do in the game. Since there is quite a bit. Now otherwise I right start, I do first want to come orderly then participation that became my own primary ever really farming sim game (unless I can count Stardew Valley?) so I just want to step forward also shout sorry for any really noob-like comments. Start about…

Setting up is beautiful easy, with fill in you're met with a menu asking to build a profile which is a question of forming a call also becoming by here. FE17 enjoys a number of modes you can choose from including Free Journey and Multiplayer (I'll talk more about the multiplayer in the time). For me, but, the first go-to room stayed the Tutorial. There's a bit of a language barrier with about incorrect cause and grammar, but when you walk beyond that that all relatively easy. This did, but, carry me on five minutes to figure out just how to help undo as I stupidly believed it was a basic WASD setup rather than having to press Z first in order to change government. Yet considering these hiccups, I did get myself enjoying the game. There's something strangely satisfying about having to go through the motions of reversing up to a piece of equipment, problem it in place, folding this away and then merrily tootling coupled to help the ground used for a living work.

Once I had grasped the basics of truly shifting and farming, I jumped organized in work my own fully-fledged farm. You get several options to take from, basically ranging from Easy to Hard. Naturally, as a complete amateur, I vote for the Calm solution. Thanks to the choice I started out with a sizable figure of notes and a good healthy total of systems already in my possession, so I could push right on with believe the head field, gathering a few plants and dealing with work. I found myself rather having my time as a character, finally doing our aim of need a tractor.

But, I gradually started to see several factors. For beginners, the selling of the systems is simply not up to scratch, especially for the way that you'd think would be easy except for many ungodly reason cause the cars to bump along constantly. The game also makes seem to element in the combined power of incidents you hitch upon the tractor, allowing you to accelerate in much the same time as you normally would. After a while, I learned that the physics in the activity might cause some rather horrendous cock-ups.

And later on, I and found out that the land actually held absolutely no influence on the quickness regarding your own vehicle, allowing you to charge full speed up high hill then carry on your own mini-adventure…

So sure, the real physics with the entertainment put something to get desired. But the true gameplay is pretty varied. So if you don't want to really need around standing and collect crops all the time, then no worries! You can go into animal husbandry having a little different options that animals to hold and making sure to keep them fed as well as pushing them for meat otherwise they fail of ancient time. Before you can grow orchards to make your delicious fruit, having to fertilize and understand the make yourself, and even have to lug the envelope to the truck! But maybe you do just want to staff with mild old-fashioned crop farming, in which case you have to choose your plants depending on the season, carefully cultivate fields properly and then make sure not to stretch them over or else they'll be ruined!

There's also vehicle maintenance and concern to take into thought, so you have to cram up your tractor with gas to maintain it moving, make sure this wonderful and fresh (as obviously, this is valuable for tractors?) as well as repair or better that now and again to make life easier.

Pretty varied, absolutely? Right. Unfortunately, this kind does not change to detail or order. So sure, you can raise the plants, care for dog with produce fruit orchards. But there's no selection in rate in the shops, so there's no need to research for improved purchase or market cost what every shop will give the same results. This lack of economy frankly lets down the whole process. The dog do need food, but not any run before time outside their pens. You don't even have to supply them yourself because everything you buy gets automatically transferred to the pencils then the animals somehow get approach for the food themselves. And with orchards, after growing and fertilizing them there's nothing else you really need to do until they're prepared to be accepted. That lack of depth turns the game into other of your calendar watching experience.

You can hire a workforce to help you out, watching them start their do is vaguely interesting at first, but soon loses its novelty. Other NPCs in the game don't offer any relationship with Real Farm basically, doing to now hear and give the world a air of go. Without success, I must tell.

There is too supposed to be a multiplayer part on the sport, but lord only gets how we may really join people. I've trawled many forums with others say related issues with no resolution forthcoming. Multiplayer becomes amazing that was added last minute, so perhaps it will be improved in the future?

The first thing I'd influence is that the game does not really have the most amazing video, with some of the textures looking very complicated and a good few popping issues going on. But I'd ponder the vehicles looked very good generally, and the weather effects were fairly well done. There's something oddly fascinating about watching puddles form with a subject while that raining.

It also take many terra-forming effects as well, so when you're preparing your take some of the machines you use actually found trenches and other changes in the soil, that changes the way the vehicle can make over them, which is very awesome. Then starting what I understand by making a bit of look at, something which makes take place in Farming Simulator games or new competitors. Character standards are pretty ordinary and forgettable, but besides the pointless NPCs, there's not really enough characters about to take much notice.

I personally acquire the soundtrack really enjoyable. There was something mildly entertaining about the music opening up when you hopped in your tractor. The fact that the strait of your engine changes depending on whether your secret or outside the vehicle was fairly nice too. But, once you perceived the looping positive impact, it leaves as a bit annoying. Also, when you got out of the tractor your personality would for some reason believe they were flying and meet the right sound. As well as that a number of the cars which gave absolutely no doors still played the door shut sound each time you got off. A problem for me, but still a problem.

Due to the lack of exposure to previous farming sim games, I found myself enjoying Farm Expert 2017 at first, but when I had partaken in all the changed tasks I found myself getting bored pretty at once. And eventually a number of the error could confirm to be quite frustrating. If that match lived a bit more polished and included some detail added to it, then I would undoubtedly charge that higher. The multiplayer certainly feels tacked with and the main experience just becomes a bit of a drag eventually.

[xwubzxbubzx]

Progressive Collapse

A continuation of my Dark!Ford fic: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

Warnings for mentions of memory alteration, incest, possessive behaviour, jealousy. SFW. 3.8K

Stan forgets many things, but he does not forget his brother.

v. Impasto

Impasto is a technique where paint is laid on an area of the surface very thickly, usually thick enough that the brush or painting-knife strokes are visible. When dry, impasto provides texture; the paint appears to be coming out of the canvas which gives the painting an almost three-dimensional appearance. It was favoured by Impressionists for its expressive qualities.

When Ford wakes up the next morning, Stan is not next to him. He leans over the side of the bed and checks the floor. His brother’s clothes are still strewn across the thick carpet but Ford’s slippers are missing. He looks for his coat and finds that it, too, is gone. Barefoot and shivering, he walks out of the room, and down the staircase. A cold draught passes through the Shack, causing the curtains to flutter — the door is ajar and Ford sees a dark shape silhouetted in the sliver of light, he opens it fully.

Stan is facing away from him, staring out into the treeline; his bare ankles poke out of his tan coat, pale and thin. The material is tight across his broad shoulders and thick arms. The fabric shifts in the wind, cupping the curve of his calves.

“Aren’t you cold?” Stan makes no move at the sound of his voice, as though he has been expecting him.

Ford moves next to him and his brother glances at him briefly. “I could ask you the same thing. I am wearing your coat.” He raises his arms and shrugs, causing the material to part, underneath he is dressed in only his boxers.

“I’m fine.” Ford says and he means it, the sight of Stan ensconced in his clothes warms him.

“The snow’s been cleared away.” He points to the grey strip of road that is bounded by high walls of white. “I think we can go into town and pick up some stuff. I don’t really want to eat a frickin’ frozen bear if I have to.” He attempts a smile.

Ford tilts his head, considering. Stan does have a point, but the thought of leaving the Shack annoys him. He prefers the solitude it offers, enjoys the way Stan must rely on him for all forms of human contact. He doesn’t wish to share that privilege with anyone.

Stan is still looking at him, eyes hopeful. The red imprint of Ford’s teeth are visible just beneath the collar of the coat. It is a teasing thing, begging Ford to bend forward and mar the softness of Stan’s throat.

“Ford, c’mon. We can’t stay here forever.” Stan knits their fingers together, squeezing slightly. “Please?”

Ford relents and nods his head. He understands that he’s being manipulated but it is still effective; he doesn’t mind it that much. “We’ll go now, if you want?”

Stan brightens visibly and lets go of his hand. He turns to go back inside, door creaking closed behind him. Ford hears the soft sounds of footfalls grow fainter and fainter.  He doesn’t regret agreeing to this, after all, no one should approach Stanley when he is there with him; people are often made discomfited by his presence — apparently he can be a bit too intense. 

Stan winces a little as he sits down. He’s squirming slightly in the driver’s seat, trying to find a position he is comfortable in. Ford feels satisfaction fill him, the events of last night linger on Stan’s body and will remain there for a long time.

The car shudders as Stan turns the key. Engine flickering on and off. Stan is growing more and more frustrated and he smashes a fist against the dashboard. When he turns the key again there is no response. “Had you for 40 years and now you’re giving me trouble. That’s just my luck—”

“Stan, I’ll handle it.”

Stan gapes at him. “Do you even know how?”

“I created an inter-dimensional portal, I’m sure this will pose no issue.” His palm grazes Stan’s freshly-shaven cheek. “Relax, I’ll be done soon.”

The rush of cold wind that hits him is bracing, at least the interior of the car offered some semblance of protection from the elements.  The hood gleams, he pops it open. A thin film of frost covers it that melts against his fingertips. He remembers being a boy, watching with wide eyes as Stan brought home the El Diablo for the first time. He remembers the drives they took out to the water front, how the headlights of cars would illuminate Stanley’s skin and highlight his features, he remembers how much he wanted to slide close to his brother and kiss him. His patience has been rewarded.

The car is meticulously well kept. One of the few things that Stan still has from Glass Shard Beach. He runs his fingers over the smooth metal, looking for a ridge. He finds it and presses the pad of his thumb against it. It beeps, recognising his fingerprint, one of the few things about his body that are innately different from Stan’s. The small device falls away from the engine and lands in the cradle of his palm, it is paper thin and lines – circuit traces – are barely visible on its translucent surface. There is no need for it anymore. Stan will not run away. He crushes it.

Ford pushes down the hood, tapping at it to get Stan’s attention. His brother rolls down the window.

“You finished?”

“It’s all fixed up, Stanley. Try it now.”

Stan obeys and turns the key. The engine roars to life. “That was quick.” He sounds impressed.

Ford sits back inside the car, Stan fiddles with knobs on the dashboard and the air conditioner blows dry, heated air at him. Stan has always been thoughtful to a fault. “Thank you.” He sighs, relishing in the warmth.

“I should be saying that, Sixer. This hunk of junk wouldn’t have started if it weren’t for you. What was the problem anyway?”

“Mm… It was nothing really. Just the cold.”

Ford settles into the seat, watching Stan’s face crease in concentration as he reverses onto the road. He drives slowly, carefully. The complete opposite of how he used to back when they were young and reckless. This is a recent change, Ford can tell. The ice slicks the road, causing each turn to slip more than it should. Stan’s fingers hold the steering wheel tightly. He is still wearing Ford’s coat.

The town is not far from the Mystery Shack, but the drive seems to stretch. The view is unchanging. Tall trees dusted in snow as far as the eyes can see. Stan talks, sharing small anecdotes, trying to piece together the frayed tapestry of his memory.

Ford is just beginning to sweat when the first buildings become visible through the tree-line, the windows are covered with a layer of condensation, everything outside looks fogged over and indistinct. Gravity Falls has always been small, uniquely remote. It is nestled in the clearing of an endless of forest, mountains rising above it. From his window it looks like a place from a dream, shop fronts are vague smudges of colour and light, people are smears on the glass, obscured and melting.

Stan parks in front of the only store in town that has not banned him, at least that is what he tells Ford. He pushes the door with a jerk, it sticks but opens. Ford does not move, unwilling to join the press of crowds, become part of it. “Let’s go, Ford.” Stan is impatient.

“Do you have a list of everything we’ll need?”

Stan has the decency to appear sheepish. “I pick up stuff as I see it. It’s not organised, but I get most of what I need.”

Ford gives him a disapproving look, before steeling himself and opening the door. His breath wisps out in front of him. The lot is empty, for the most part. It is still early morning and obviously many people are still at home, sleeping in their beds or dead-eyed at work. He wonders what day it is.

There is graffiti on the sides of the building, barely legible phrases and childish drawings. A bored teenager greets them once they enter, she seems remarkably similar to the red-headed girl Stan employs. The both have the same bored expression, dark circles under their eyes, magazine in their hands. It is an effortless indifference.

The shelves are high and filled with more brands than he remembers there being 30 years ago. The lights are fluorescent and cold, a camera whirrs in the corner, watching them. Soft but unfamiliar music plays in the background, a peaceful white noise to cover the silence. He hasn’t ever accompanied Stan here before. It has been a long time since he has gone shopping. It has been a long time since he has been in this dimension.

Stan is carrying a plastic basket, smirking. His shoulder bumps against Ford. “Get whatever you want, not like we’re gonna be paying for half of it. These people never learn.” He walks off, there is a slight yet gratifying limp in his walk, an unmistakeable stiffness.

The few people that are there seem to recognise Stanley, smiling as he walks past. Ford does not like this at all but Stan barely pays them any attention beyond a cursory nod and easy grin. He decides to explore the store on his own and categorise the sheer number of changes that have occurred in this world while he was gone.

It is fascinating. Cellular phones have grown unimaginably small and ubiquitous, so many people are hunched over, lost in their own world with their thumbs darting across screens – screens that can register touch. The thought excites him. He considers buying one. Dipper and Mabel have introduced him to the internet but he hasn’t taken the time to fully explore it. Perhaps he should now, his work with Stan is done. He can finally focus his attention on different things and there is so much to do.

He’s roaming through the aisles, hands trailing against the shelves, when he hears a crash and a pained yelp. The sound is familiar. Stanley. He starts towards the direction of the noise, moving with quiet and startling swiftness. It does not take long. When he finds Stan, the man is crumpled on the floor; his basket is overturned, cans and miscellanea are strewn around him. His head in his hands, thumbs kneading at his temples. A store clerk hovers nearby awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Ford kneels down beside him.

“Thank god you’re here, Sixer.” Stan turns to look at him, he is pale as a sheet. Ford rubs his back gently, large concentric circles.

“Sir, are you alright? Should we call someone—?”

Ford cuts her off. “My brother is fine.” He says firmly, before softening his gaze and attempting a comforting smile. “We’re not as young as we used to be and the winter hasn’t been kind. There’s nothing to be worried about, everything is perfectly alright.”

She remains unconvinced. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to—”

“Don’t worry, this happens sometimes.” He helps Stan get up, his brother looks slightly pained but the sickly glow of his skin has disappeared. “As you can see, he’s a lot better now.”

Mollified, she nods and walks away. Her minimum wage salary does not compel her to care more.

“Ford.” Stan’s voice is weak. “Can we go to the bathroom? I don’t feel too great.”

No one really notices them, their age lending them anonymity. Stan is heavy against him, a dead weight, but they both manage to make it inside the dingy bathroom. It reeks of refuse and antiseptic causing Ford to wrinkle his nose. A single unshaded light bulb hangs from the ceiling, swinging to and fro. Ford locks the door behind them.

Stan braces himself against the bowl of the toilet and retches, deep heaves from his diaphragm. Nothing escape his mouth except bile and saliva. He slumps to the floor, exhausted. Ford is next to him, making soothing noises, smoothing back his hair.

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Y-Yeah. Guess I’m just tired, haven’t had breakfast or anything.”

“We’ll get something to eat after I’m done buying everything.” Ford pulls him up and Stan presses against him in a hug.

“Thanks, Sixer. Always feel better around you.” They stay like that for a while, until they hear a rattle of someone trying to turn the handle.

“One second—” Stan yells, and rinses his hands and mouth in the sink, splashing water against his face. He opens the door and both of the brother’s exit, the man outside barely paying them any heed as he enters.

Ford walks slowly, he has a fairly accurate layout of the store in his mind and he plots out the most efficient route to get all of the necessities. Stan stays close to him, their shoulders brushing as they move. Ford has a firm grip on his brother’s elbow, an assurance of support and strength.

Thankfully, it is not take long until they are back outside, loading things into the trunk of the car. Stan had protested at Ford actually paying for everything in the cart but had eventually quietened, unable to continue the discussion while the cashier was within earshot.

“You could’ve let me take one thing.” He complains.

Ford ignores him, Stan’s arms had shaken slightly as he picked up their groceries. He’s weak with pain and exhaustion. “Do you want me to drive, Stanley?”

“You can drive?” Disbelief colours his tone.

“Of course I can.”

Stan does not look up as he tosses the keys at him, the tinkle faintly as they arc through the air. Ford catches them. “Isn’t this just a week of surprises? You can fix a car, cook and drive. What else are you hiding, Sixer?”

When Ford smiles, it shows his teeth. “Not much, Lee.”

He doesn’t have to adjust the seat, his legs are the same length as Stan’s; the back of his skull is cradled comfortably against the headrest, like it’s been molded to fit him. This is probably the first time Stan has let anyone besides himself drive the El Diablo. He must still feel sick.

“Do you know where Greasy’s is?” Stan asks.

“Greasy’s?” Ford rolls the name on his tongue, he has a vague inkling of the place. Maybe he went there once?

“It was around while you here.” Stan huffs out a soft laugh. “I figured you wouldn’t know it, not your kinda place.”

“Can you tell me the way there?” Ford does not want to burden Stan when he is in this state more than he needs to, but he’s got absolutely no idea where to go.

“Off Main Street, two rights and a left. It looks like an old train car, you can’t miss it.” Stan closes his eyes, and curls up against Ford’s side. His hands shift, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt.

“Tired?”

Stan hums in response, draping the coat over himself like a make-shift blanket.

Ford does not drive as smoothly as his brother, he presses the brakes a little too hard, and he swerves uncomfortably close to other cars but he tries. Stan’s breath is even, and warm against his arm.

“We’re close.”

“Mm… I know.” He nuzzles his face against Ford and inhales deeply. “Why do I feel so much better near you?” This is a question Ford cannot answer, not yet anyway. He doubts Stan wants to know the real reason.

He parks the car jerkily, and Stan shifts away from him, stretching out his arms. His hair is mussed, curling upwards charmingly, and making him look decades younger. Ford reaches over and pats it down.

“Nice nap?”

“Didn’t sleep, actually.” He cracks his neck. “This headache wasn’t as bad as the first couple of ones. Whatever you did must’ve worked a bit.”

“I think so too. Maybe we should try it again?” Ford wants him to say yes.

“Nah, Sixer. This seems like a one off, hasn’t been a problem since then really.” His hand rests on the door-handle. “I’m starving and I know you are too; we both haven’t eaten for at least a day.”

The diner is cozy, young families tucked into booths, long-distance truckers slump onto the counter, sipping strong coffee and watching television. Stan pulls him to a corner table near the back. The faux-leather of the sofa is bright red and spotted with years’ worth of questionable stains. It is pleasant nonetheless, the air sweet with the scent of baked goods and warmth.

A woman walks over; she’s about their age with bright blue eye shadow and garish pink lips, one of her eyelids is closed in a perpetual wink. She recognizes them but Ford can’t seem to place her. He checks her nametag — Susan.

“What’ll it be, Stan-ley.” She giggles at the rhyme. Ford hates her with a sudden passion. She then turns to him, still smiling. “And you must be the real Stanford.”

Ford inclines his head, barely acknowledging her attempt at conversation. He wants her gone.

She doesn’t seem fazed, looking back at his brother. “Haven’t seen you around here for a while. Too busy doing mysterious stuff off in the wood?”

Stan doesn’t seem to mind, preening under the attention. “Oh, you know. I’m doing this and that. Trying to figure everything out, killing monsters. The usual stuff.” There is a certain smoothness in his tone — an oily glaze of charisma.

She giggles again, the sound grates at his ears, and curls a lock of hair around her finger. “Well, you still shouldn’t have forgotten us like that.”

She’s flirting with Stan. His Stan. And Stan seems happy about it, running his hand through his hair like he is 16 and not 60. Ford’s holding the table, knuckles white.

“We’ll both get some pancakes.” He interrupts. He can’t bear this anymore.

She startles at the sound of his voice before jotting their order down. “Oh, I’ll get it for you right away. Don’t think about paying a dime, Stan Pines. Everything’s on the house for the town hero — and his brother.” The last part of the sentence is tacked on, like Ford is an afterthought.

“Wasn’t planning on paying anyway, Susan.” Stan calls back at her retreating form. He turns to Ford, face serious. “What was that about, Sixer?”

“What do you mean?” Ford tries to go for innocence but the lingering anger in his voice betrays him.

“You look about ready to kill someone.”

“I don’t respond favourably to strangers, especially not ones that get as… familiar as that woman just did.” Ford picks up one of the salt shakers, rolling it back and forth in his palm, trying to calm himself.

Stan doesn’t desist from his line of questioning. “Cut the crap, Ford. And her name’s Susan.”

“What do you want me to say, Stan? That I enjoyed the fact that she was blatantly trying to get you to fu—”

“Shut up.” It is said with such force that Ford complies. Stan leans back, appraising him and then he laughs from deep in his belly. “Never pegged you for the insecure type.”

“I think a better word would be jealous.” Ford says, affronted.

“Jealousy, insecurity, two sides of the same coin.” There is still amusement in his tone. Ford doesn’t like being mocked.

“Am I wrong to be? You two seem to share some romantic history.”

Stan fidgets, blushing softly. “Relax, will you? My head’s kinda fuzzy, but trust me, I don’t want to revisit that memory again.”

Ford is seeing red. “So you were involved—”

“If you count one date where I bolted after screaming ‘non-specific excuse,’ then yes, we had a torrid love affair.”

“I still don’t like it.”

Stan reaches over, taking the salt shaker from his hand. “You don’t have to.” He quiets, watching the white grains gather at one side as he tilts the container. “You never acted like this with Carla.”

“I was younger, and far more confused. If you recall, I used to leave every time she came over.” Ford was different then, anxious and frightened and weak. He thinks he hated her, but it was an impotent and futile feeling, more envy than anger. The portal had changed him, or maybe Bill had; hardened out his edges and sharpened them to a point. “Even so, we weren’t together then either.” He says this delicately, not wanting to disturb the dark and tenuous thing between them.

Stan slouches lower in his seat. “I think I loved Carla, but that doesn’t make any sense because I’ve always loved you.” Ford slides his hand across the table and rests it atop Stan’s. A spark slips from his fingertips and absorbs into Stan’s skin, red and fleeting. It is a little reminder, a small nudge in the right direction. “I wish I knew what the fuck was happening.” Stan sounds drained, turning his hand over so that he can grip Ford’s fingers, squeezing them together for a moment.

“Food’s here!” Susan calls, carrying a tray that is piled high with far more than two plates of pancakes. Stan’s hand darts away, slipping beneath the table. She places the steaming food in front of them, beaming. “Enjoy.”

Ford thinks that she leans too close to Stanley, that she bends over too far but his brother’s concentration is elsewhere, directed on consuming as much as physically possible in one sitting. It is most likely a remnant from the days he couldn’t predict when his next meal would be. The guilt, the rage, makes Ford lose his appetite. He wishes he could take back all those years where Stan lived alone, but then they have made him so dependent on Stanford, he is inextricably intertwined with Stan’s idea of a home.

The drive back to the Mystery Shack is silent. Ford remembers the way; he could navigate these woods blind-folded if he had to, the knowledge was necessary for his survival. He knew the forest far better than he knew the town. The trees seem more human, more distinct to him than most people do. He feels calmer with each mile gained between them and civilisation.

The sun is bright, hanging high in the sky; Ford assumes it is somewhere around noon. The glare reflects of the snow and into his eyes – he has to squint to see. Stan is draped across the front seat, lost in post-binge exhaustion. He looks content, eyes closed, listening idly to the radio. Ford can still hear him heaving in the dank toilet, hear his name on Stan’s lips when he’s helpless, hear him laughing with the waitress. Stan’s always in his head, waiting.

“How are you feeling, Lee?”

His brother doesn’t open his eyes. “Mm…Stuffed but good. Why?”

“Just checking.”

“Is that concern I hear in your tone? You’re spoiling me, Sixer.”

Ford laughs, “Maybe it is. I like taking care you.” He looks at Stan through the rear-view mirror, he is blushing, more from arousal than embarrassment. He’s all warm, safe and loved all because of Ford. He doesn’t need anyone else.

Not anymore.

it’s on ao3:  http://archiveofourown.org/works/11679609/chapters/26650206

Also, maybe I haven't explained but dark!ford is the way he is because Bill constantly possessed him. I always figured that there would be long lasting damage from sharing literal head-space with a demon. It adds a layer of irony too, Ford's been manipulated and he's doing the same to Stanley.

part 6

[un-enfant-immature]

Driving Volkswagen’s all-electric ID Buggy concept

The VW electric ID Buggy concept is delightful and bright, stout and smiling. It’s a vehicle fit for the sunshine and sand dunes, or perhaps a less committing slow roll along the beach.

And so my first drive in a prototype of the all-electric buggy — along the coast near Spanish Bay in Monterey, Calif., — was tinged with sadness. After all, the ID Buggy is just a concept. It’s not meant for this world. At least not right now.

There is still a chance that the ID Buggy will make it to production. VW is already in talks with “at least one company” to bring the buggy into production, TechCrunch confirmed.

The global debut of the ID Buggy concept at the 89th Geneva International Motor Show in March was meant to showcase VW’s electric future and demonstrate the versatility of its modular electric drive toolkit chassis, or MEB. The MEB, which was introduced in 2016, is a flexible modular system — really a matrix of common parts — for producing electric vehicles that VW says make it more efficient and cost-effective.

The first vehicles to use this MEB platform will be under the ID brand, although this platform can and will be used for electric vehicles under other VW Group brands such as Skoda and Seat. (The MEB won’t be used by VW brands Audi or Porsche, which are developing their own platform for electric vehicles.)

VW has shown off several ID concepts. Some of these, like the ID Crozz and ID Buzz are going into production. A production version of the Crozz is coming to the U.S. at the end of 2020. Others, like this buggy, are not currently on the production track.

Driving the ID Buggy Drive

The ID Buggy is simple, and that’s exactly what it should be. No clutter or whiz-bang creature comforts. Instead, this leisure vehicle inspired by the 1960s era Meyers Manx has no roof or doors — although a tarpaulin can be stretched between the windscreen frame and the Targa bar as a sun sail or light weather protection. Without doors, the driver climbs in, and with relative ease, depending on one’s general fitness and flexibility.

The ID Buggy towers over its inspiration — the iconic Meyers Manx buggy that became popular among the California beach-and-surf culture of the 1960s.

The ID Buggy was also a quieter, smoother ride than the Meyers Manx. I also spent some time in a classic bright red buggy with a four-speed manual transmission and gas engine that might have been a touch carbureted. While the Manx roared as I shifted into first and peeled away, the electric ID Buggy was silent and smooth as it rolled out of the sandy parking lot.

The main detail inside the ID Buggy is the lack of features and do-dads. The hexagonal steering wheel, shown above, isn’t littered with toggles; there are just a couple of controls on the crossbar. A small integrated stock to the right side of the steering wheel allows the driver to move the vehicle into drive, reverse and park. A digital instrument cluster provides the basic information like speed.

Even the brake and accelerator pedals continue this stripped-down design story. 

The dashboard and the passenger area are just as void of features. This lack of “stuff” is more about function than form, although the matte green and textured grey blue at the bottom does make a visual statement. The ID Buggy is meant to be driven in the elements, rain or shine. And so designers made the interior waterproof.

Under the ID Buggy’s body is where the good stuff lives.

The rear-wheel drive buggy is outfitted with an electric motor that produces 201 horsepower and a maximum torque of 228 pound-feet. It has a 62-kilowatt-hour battery that can travel 155 miles (under the WLTP standard) on a single charge. There is not an EPA estimate for the range. It can accelerate from a standstill to 62 miles per hour in 7.2 seconds.

Unfortunately, this prototype had a kill-the-thrill speed limiter on it, scuttling my plans for a zippy ride along the coast.

Still, the ID Buggy offered a fun and easy, breezy ride. It handled the curves of the roads with ease and its wide body and higher rear end provided a sense of security even while driving amid other much larger passenger cars.

Building the ID Buggy

It’s unclear what company, or companies, are in talks to produce the buggy. VW wouldn’t give names; not even the ocean breeze and cloudless sky or the endless supercar eye candy were enough to loosen the lips of VW employees during Monterey Car Week.

It’s possible that this unnamed company is e.Go Mobile. VW announced in March that e.Go Mobile would be its first external partner to use its MEB electric platform to launch other EVs in addition to Volkswagen’s model range. A dedicated vehicle project is already being planned, VW said at the time.

A VW spokesperson told TechCrunch there’s no decision about which car will be produced under this partnership with e.Go Mobile. It could be the buggy; it could also be some other vehicle.

And then there’s Ford. Earlier this year, the two automakers announced a partnership that includes Ford producing electric cars based on the MEB developed by Volkswagen.

The VW folks on the ground in Monterey did express hope that a third party does build the buggy, or a modified version of it. As one spokesperson later told TechCrunch, “As the drive in Monterey showed, the Buggy is a great ambassador for Volkswagen and for e-mobility. I am sure it would find a lot of customers.”

In the end, the ID Buggy is a sleek cruiser rather than a beach bomber like the 1960s original. It successfully demonstrates the versatility around VW’s electric platform. After all, Volkswagen foresees critical parts in the ID Buggy used to power multiple consumer electric vehicles in the near future. And it’s a fair assumption the ID Buggy’s production cousins will have a bit more gadgets, including silly things like doors.

[alicescripts]

Part 2, Chapter 1: The Last Free Place

So to recap. Uh... Shit.

There’s a lot. Probably too much. Alice isn’t dead, let’s start there. I thought she was, but she isn’t. I’m not looking for her anymore. She asked me not to. She deserves to not be followed.

What she did was wrong. Someone doesn’t have to be perfect, or even good, to deserve not to be followed if they don’t want to be. The threshold for deserving that is just being a human being that isn’t a danger to anyone.

But I’m still out here. Still driving a truck. Still searching. Not for Alice but.. for understanding. She and I both worked for a transportation company called Bay and Creek. But Bay and Creek is not just involved in trucking and is apparently at war with a group of inhuman entities I call the Thistle Men, who are responsible for unsolved serial killings all over the country. The Thistle Men appear to do this with the knowledge and permission of the US government.

Oh man. That’s a lot when you say it all out loud like that. What am I doing? I should go home. But I can’t.

Alice isn’t dead, and neither am I.

I see their commander not two weeks later. I would have thought they would try to keep our routes separate, but maybe I’m below their worry, or even below their notice. And so the woman who led the Bay and Creek army that saved me back in the town of Thistle Men, I see her chatting at a distribution center outside of Omaha. She seems at ease, a truck driver on a smoke break. Talking, flirting maybe, with a warehouse worker. As she leaves, he hands her a piece of paper, which she puts in her pocket without reading. I don’t think they were flirting.

Then in Los Angeles a month after that, I see her again. She’s sitting in her truck, not looking at her phone, not reading a book, not anything. Only staring straight ahead. This time I decide to follow her. I will be late on delivery, I will be in a great deal of trouble, but I don’t think they will fire me.

Dead stop traffic in the valley. High above, way up there on the powerline, are three tiny birds. They sway as the line sways. At any moment they could take off. And then the car in front of me moves and so I move, and we inch forward a little more before stopping again.

An hour later, we come over the hill and there is an entire plain of suburbia laid out for me. Orange tile roofs, and the signs for Targets and Walmarts arrayed out into the distance like the flags of nation states, each one marking a place that is, in historical terms, mind-bogglingly huge. Forget the cavernous spaces inside, the aisles of products and the employee areas in the on-sight warehouse. And forget the roof of each of these megastores, maces of tar and ducts. Instead, just consider the parking lots. Acres and acres of lot for every acre of store. Entire medieval cities could fit into each one of these parking lots. At night, in the least lit corners, teenagers learn the best secrets of being an adult, before drudging the next day to their cashier jobs in Target or the cell phone stores, to learn the worst secrets of being an adult.

We give so much space to these lots, without considering what kind of space they take in our culture.

I follow her east. The hotter and drier the land gets, the more snow there is on the mountains above us. All through the desert here, patches of bright green, stands of trees and lawns, and hundreds of farm fields. They’re wrong against a landscape like this, sure, but extravagant in their wrongness. They are not like an ill-fitting toupee but.. like a towering purple and silver wig barely restrained by cavity. The green on the desert revels in its artificiality.

At sunset, the mountains go pink. And then the edge of the color slides up the slopes, a candy avalanche in reverse, until only the peaks glow. And then, all at once and together, the mountains lose the last of the light and become silhouettes, as though finally letting out a long held breath.

We pass Palm Springs and turn south toward the Salton Sea. An expanse of salt water created accidentally by a flood and maintained by agricultural run-off. With no natural flow of water in or out, the sea is destined to die, evaporating into an ever saltier state, and because of the fertilizers and the run-off, subject to algae blooms that cause mass die-offs in the fish.

When I was a kid, we lived near a lot of agriculture, and from the road we could see a pond near the edge of some fields. It had a little island in the middle, trees all around it. The water was bright green. One day, my friends and I snuck under fences, through the fields and to the pond. The entire bottom was lined with black plastic, something I realize only now was because they didn’t want whatever was in that pond seeping into the ground water. We swam for a couple hours, went home, showered and agreed that there was something wrong about the water there, and that we would never go back. Anyway, that’s basically the story of the Salton Sea. All of California spent their 50’s and 60’s sneaking into a pond of agricultural run-off, and then later realize that there was something wrong with the water and they should never go back. And so the resorts died, crumbling away or buried in mud.

We’re heading along the coast of the sea now. Oh shit! OK... OK. The road keeps dipping down and then up sharply, which is disconcerting in a truck like this. We pass these little dry steams, each one called a wash. I just… I just passed Butter Wash. [chuckles] That sounds pretty good. Hmm. Bug Wash. That sounds less good.

We’re turning off the highway in a town called Niland. At the hollowed-out ruin of a corner store, where someone has left a dog, a pony and a horse all hitched together under a broken wall. Past this is a scattering of houses and trailers, and then an electrical substation in some railroad tracks, and then a concrete pill box spray painted with the words “Slab City- the last free place”. Hm. The squatters’ city. A mixture of gutter punks and anarchists and artists and, just retirees looking to make their pension stretch. Anyone who wants a patch of land without worrying about paying for it. The last free place.

I’m keeping back, because there’s only one road in and out of Slab City, and a truck like this stands out on it. So I’m going to have to be very careful. What are those lights? [police car siren] Oh no. Oh God. Oh shit. Oh God. [anxious breathing]

The cop is sitting there. It’s been several minutes. They have not gotten out of the car. Lots of trailers in sight but no people. I think they scattered when they saw the cops. I would have.

The officer’s getting out, they’re walking toward me. I’m going to… I’ll leave the radio on, just in case.

Officer*: Hey. Hey.

Keisha: Hello, officer. How can I help you?

Officer: Do you have any idea how fast you were going?

Keisha: Uh, no. I-I think I was… Well how fast was I going?

Officer: I don’t know. That’s why I asked.

Keisha: ) have it on cruise control, but it should have been right around the speed limit.

Officer: Like to give up control?

Keisha: I’m sorry?

Officer: Don’t be. It’s a common wish. Life is so complicated, anything to make it more simple.

Keisha: I’m not sure what… How can I help you Officer?

Officer: What’s your name?

Keisha: Keisha.

Officer: OK Keisha, no problem. I need your license and registration, please. [paper rustling] OK. I’m gonna run these through the system. Sit tight.

Keisha: [sighs] Oh, Jesus.

 Keisha: She’s been in her car for a while. Her uniform was weird, I can’t even put my finger on how. It seemed sloppy somehow, with a badge that looked like it was plastic. It’s probably just… she’s coming again.

Officer: You can have these back.

Keisha: Thank you.

Officer: Did you have a chance to visit the beach?

Keisha: The… beach?

Officer: Of the Salton Sea back there. It’s the weirdest beach ever, the sand isn’t right. It’s not the right texture. It’s covered in petrified fish.

Keisha: What is happening right now?

Officer: And then you look closer at the sand, you know, of the beach, and you realize the sand isn’t sand. It’s fishbone. The beaches are made of fishbone here.

Keisha: Is there a problem, officer?

Officer: I used to have this thing as a kid, I didn’t like uncovered windows. Mostly after dark, but sometimes during the light too. At night, I thought there was something out there watching me. Even if just a little sliver of the window wasn’t covered. I’d picture an eye pressed up against it. and then during the day, it was different. I would instead imagine some horrible creature shuffling around the house and they would be arriving that window soon, and they would see me but worse, I would see them. It’s a childish fear, but as you and I both know, not an unfounded one.

Keisha: Officer, I… was there a particular reason you pulled me over ?

Officer: You were going fast.

Keisha: I was going over the speed limit?

Officer: I have no idea. You were going fast. Big truck going fast, it’s exciting. Anything that big and fast, you wanna chase it.

Keisha: What department do you work for? Are-are you a State Trooper or..?

Officer: I’d have to check the car, I forgot what it said when I got in it.

Keisha: When you got in it?

Officer: It was dark. I’ve gotten more used to the dark. I’ve grown as a person. I would have thought you’d be proud of me.

Keisha: You aren’t a police officer at all, are you? You’re.. You’re a weirdo who stole a police car.

Officer: That’s an interesting theory. Here’s my badge.

Keisha: This doesn’t say any department on it. it says you are a… “police instigator”?

Officer: I could take off both.., your arms.

Keisha: What?!

Officer: With my own hands. No tools, I could take them off. I’ve done it before. It was easier than I thought it would be. [engine stars, stops] Trying to drive away would be a mistake, Keisha. I’m just here to talk.

Keisha: What do you want?!

Officer: You know, it’s been so long since anyone asked that. I was just thinking about it, standing on that beach made of bone. Near town with its cheery 50’s resort signs still up, a woman on water skis in a bikini and now the whole town shrugging its way into the silt. What do I want? [chuckling] I don’t know what I want. So let’s instead think about what you want.

Keisha: What do I want?

Officer: To be careful. You’ve seen things. We don’t like people who have seen things. I would say it makes us nervous, but we don’t have the capacity for nerves, so more it makes us agitated. It makes us wild. Have you ever been made wild?

Keisha: I-

Officer: It.. doesn’t.. matter, that was a rhetorical question. Or not a rhetorical question, what’s that word? Threat! I’m threatening you!

Keisha: OK, I… Now your turn to listen. I’ve faced fiercer dangers and walked out alive. I’ve seen things that I could never explain, not if I spent 100 more years talking into this radio. You want me scared? Officer, you have no idea. I’m always scared. You think fear is new to me, you think fear is the novelty that will change my behavior? For me, fear is living. And I’ve lived this long, haven’t I? I said haven’t I?

Officer: [pause 5 s] I like you. You’re the most interesting one yet, I can see why they sent me. They know I love the interesting ones.

Keisha: Who sent you, the police?

Officer: [scoffs] You think the highest it goes is some thugs in blue? You think the Thistle Men could live in peace on an air force space because some State Troopers are in on it? Police don’t understand. I feed on the police.

Keisha: Try to feed on me. You wouldn’t be the first.

Officer: Feed on you? We just met. We have so much more to get through first, Keisha. I take my time. Drive safe now, I’m letting you off with a warning. But remember.

Keisha: Yeah?

Officer: [pause 4 s] I could dismantle you with just my teeth. I’ve done that, too. I’ll be seeing you around, Keisha. This is gonna be a good time, I think. Isn’t it so nice, you know, you love your job?

Keisha: What just happened? [chuckles] Oh, Alice. This is much worse than the Thistle Men, I think. They were hungry but she… She was smart. She was very smart. I’m in a bad position here. I hope you’re safer. The woman I’m following is out of sight, of course. But there’s only one road in and out and nowhere else she could go. I just have to wait.

An entire day, by the way. An entire day I spent waiting and searching. A sculpture garden made of discarded junk. A library tucked away back among the sage and trailers. A towering monument to Jesus made of hay and latex paint. A squatter’s shack on a hill with a big yellow eye watching me. I don’t know how, but the woman from Bay and Creek and her entire truck vanished in the Last Free Place, among the trailers and abandoned military structures. I don’t know. 

I think I should lay low a bit. I’m gonna head north, try to stay out of the radar. But the officer… She isn’t done with me. There’s bad trouble coming. I can tell you that, Alice. There’s some truly bad trouble coming.

*The “officer” is the same person who introduced themselves in bonus episode 3.

Joseph Fink: Alice Isn’t Dead, by Joseph Fink. Performed by Jasika Nicole. Produced by Disparition. This episode also featured the voice of Roberta Colindrez.  

And now, a knock-knock joke. Knock knock.

[left speaker] Who’s there?

A sense of well-being.

[left speaker] A sense of well-being who?

A sense of well-being. A touch of the hand to snow. The way it feels good until it doesn’t. the way it only hurts later. The way that the world seems lighter, as in illumination. And the way the world seems lighter, as in weight. And the way the world seems lighter, as in stress. The way it seems like we’ve hidden all that was ugly under our fresh start until the friction of our movement starts churning all that was hidden back to the surface. Because it always resurfaces, because the dead return, because light reverses. Aren’t you glad I didn’t run screaming into the woods, never heard from again physically, impossible to stop hearing memory-wise? 

If you enjoy this show, consider heading on over to aliceisn’tdead.com and checking out our T-shirts, which have the incredible skull truck logo by Rob Wilson. And be sure to check out the other shows from the Night Vale Presents network, including the scifi/romance/prison escape thriller/relaxation type show Within the Wires, and the surrealist beauty of Paris in The Orbiting Human Circus of the Air. And the show that started it all, Welcome to Night Vale, telling an ongoing story you can jump into at any time. Come join us in a little desert town where every conspiracy theory is true.

 Meg Bashwiner: This has been a production of Night Vale Presents. Find out more about us and our shows at nightvalepresents.com.