Greetings {{firstname_title | Valthakai}}, grill masters, barbecue-ers, and meat seasoners…

It’s time for our first official roast!

A huge thank you to our Roastee of the Week, though you’ll have to keep reading to find out who was selected.

Don’t worry, there are enough insults to go around, and I made sure everyone got a taste.

I also wanted to thank JR Plangman, Emily Cooper, Margareta Strööm, and the crew of Sarkanys Rising LLC. for their generous participation in our first PO Unboxing video!

Check out the books and merchandise we received and add them to your own collection and TBR!

If you haven’t noticed yet, we’re now highlighting a Write In of the Week at the top of our editions, so welcome to the spotlight, Queenie Meanie!

Thank you to everyone who wrote in this week, filled out an interest form, or mailed us their work.

We hope we’re doing you justice!

Enjoy!

Love,

The Crone and Daniel

Your Hail Mary

Ah, the vampire lovers.

From time immemorial, some of you freaks have found all you need to get your motor running is elongated canines.

As we begin our roast of the week series, we’re going to include a general topic to make sure everyone gets their feelings hurt… call it a roast zodiac if you will.

Today, we’re mocking the fang-fuckers.

You’re a monster.

You’re pale.

You don’t go outside when the sun is up.

And that was before you turned.

You want to be hot and dangerous… so long as it doesn’t involve a fitness routine, martial arts instruction, weapons training, or, y’know, effort.

As part of your commitment issues, you can’t even be a proper monster; you just wanted an eye color change and some dental work.

Make no mistake, the vampire is the lazy man’s lay.

Too cowardly to fuck a real monster or admit they’re vanilla and draw the line at bite marks.

Did somebody say anxiously attached?

To such an extent that you need your presence to sustain another person.

Gods (worldbuilding) forbid you from having a normal relationship; no, they can’t just tell you they like you —that’s not enough—you need to be the reason they stay alive.

Babes, get your MD it’s easier.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed it when a partner has prioritized me over oxygen, but there’s something to be said for a well-balanced meal between rounds.

When it comes to you, your dating history is less a series of funny stories and more like a warehouse collection of red flags, if only you’d take off the rose-colored glasses.

“Oh, but Daniel, you don’t get it! He makes my heart race!”

So does a ten-minute conversation with your mother.

Want to Get Roasted?

Everyone, put your hands together and welcome our very first Roastee of the Week: RHIANNON.

Why the fuck are you clapping? Nobody can hear you.

It takes guts to be a guinea pig… or a degradation kink, and based on Rhiannon’s form, I know which it is.

Before we crack down on Rhiannon’s interests, I need to let you all know that she is a witch, which means if I fuck this up, she’ll take credit for the next mild inconvenience that affects my life.

In a world of violence, hatred, and bad drivers, Rhiannon’s weapon of choice is a candle and a poor relationship with her father.

I’m quaking in my vegan leather¹ boots.

Don’t worry, though, Rhiannon is in good company with the plethora of well-adjusted characters she most resonates with.

Bask in awe of the mental stability of Dean Winchester and Harley Quinn.

Her attraction to men doesn’t just include the ones with daddy issues; it applies to anyone who’s a little bit broken.

Hence, Jinu and Husk also make the list.

I don’t know what’s more embarrassing: having such a significant attraction to two-dimensional characters or admitting you like Hazbin Hotel.

Out of curiosity, how do you feel knowing a clinically insane clown has a better academic career than you?.. and a more successful sapphic romance?

Of course, not all of her favs are indicative of a mental health disorder.

Some of our clues lie in her preferred poison: a Long Island iced tea, or Earl Grey— in other words: fall off the table drunk, or maintain the circadian rhythm of a British lord in the 1400s.

Life of the party, aren’t you?

Now, Rhiannon is not like the other girls; she enjoys Enemies to Lovers.

Groundbreaking.

Never mind that being a mild inconvenience gives her an arrhythmia; she’s trying to convince us she wants confrontation.

What’s more, I’m supposed to believe that her ideal night ends with her returning to her Harem— love, when was the last time you were able to get a complete sentence out in front of a single (1) attractive woman?

You stutter when you think about the Hex Girls, don’t lie to me.

Lastly, Rhiannon is DYING for someone to let her talk about the Salem Witch Trials, so I have to ask:

What’s it like knowing you’ll only be hot at the stake?

THANK YOU, RHIANNON!

The denmother had spared no expense.

Whatever impression Lilia had left on King Aphros, her people had loved her dearly.

Sveun was good on her word, allowing me the honor of attending the erosiate’s funeral, and the smaller, more intimate gathering of her den-fellows afterwards.

The Psyche Ward had closed for the day, turning back hundreds of outraged patrons to allow Lilia’s coworkers—more siblings, I suppose—to share stories about the woman I had met.

I was surprised to discover that the Ward didn’t exclusively employ erosiates, an Unringed Fae male, several Brewitches, and even a Becomer made speeches throughout the evening.

Everyone sat around the main lounge, nursing whatever the bartender had decided to serve.

“Top shelf,” Sveun had demanded, and I watched as he cracked two bottles of fine whisky.

The stuff had aged for close to five hundred years, and like most of its kind, tasted like burned wood.

I swallowed it anyway, especially when it was my turn to speak about Lilia.

I fascinated the Ward, though I earned more than a few outraged looks at my presence; no doubt word had spread, and many blamed me for their sister’s death.

I wish it weren’t true.

But I spoke of my time with her, how we met on Priapnior, how she had befriended a beckoner, my assumptions about her powers.

I earned a chuckle or two, and afterward, a few people stopped to tell me how beautifully I had spun the tale.

And that was that.

The funeral over.

Lilia buried.

And the rest of us were left to slowly forget about her.

So when Sveun gave me something to focus on, I leaped on it.

Apparently, Lord Vari himself had contacts here on Filasphian, but the denmother remained tight-lipped regarding their business.

If I were to receive that information, I’d need to do something for her.

And thus, I was now standing outside a venue considerably shittier than the Ward.