#i am agog - his is so GOOD at these reacts

[mslanna]

Raphael reacting to his little mouse asking to meet with him privately; when he agrees, Tav makes a thorough check of the room (to ensure nothing and nobody is eavesdropping) before explaining. Tav informs the cambion that another fiend appeared before them and attempted to get the adventurer to agree to sellout Raphael by essentially acting as a mole, so now Tav is here to warn him while also trying to figure out some things, "Any idea why that other devil thought that I'd be a good choice for this? They claimed you were enamored with me, but I stopped paying attention when they persisted with flattery rather than give me their actual reasoning." Meanwhile, Raphael is sat there knowing all that "flattery" is true.

Well, that took an unexpected turn at the end. 🤭 nby Tav without body configuration unwise application of whisky Read it on AO3

Double-Dealing Devils

Everything had to be perfect. Raphael made another round through his suite in Sharess' Caress. His favourite future client, his little mouse had asked – asked – to meet him. This could only mean one thing, and he was ready.

The wine was ready. Refreshments were ready. The special occasion outfit in black and red was tailored to perfection and fitting impeccably. Scented soaps and lotions awaited in case the meeting turned a little more – satisfactory than Tav anticipated. The rose petals might clue them in.

On the other hand, they might not. Tav could be deliciously oblivious for all their street smarts and battle prowess. Raphael tugged at his sash and ran a hand through his perfect hair. Archdevil Raphael. Ruler of the nine hells.

Soon.

The door opened and his future swept in, disregarding him completely. Raphael frowned as Tav began a thorough search of his suite – not just with hands and eyes, he felt the distinctive tingle of magic.

"Pray what-"

"Sh!" Tav hissed. Their tone was so urgent, that Raphael obeyed.

Such power in such a small package. He watched Tav doing a full circuit, thinking of all the wonderful ways he could harness their energy. Free it. Shape it to his will. Leaning back against his desk, Raphael let his thoughts roam freely over the subject.

"Happy?" He crossed his arms and tilted his head when Tav finally deigned to approach him.

"You know you are rather unpopular already?" Tav mirrored his pose.

"I'm a devil, my dear. I am popular only with those who are worth the time and effort."

"Maybe you should reconsider who that is, because I got a really interesting offer."

"Is that so." Raphael refused to be fazed. "I am curious why you did not take it."

"Who says I didn't?"

"Would you be here if you did?" Raphael straightened. "If you have found another way to solve your little tadpole problem, I am all agog to hear about it."

"It's not about that," Tav conceded. "Or maybe a little."

"Come, sit." Raphael gestured to the comfortable couch at the pool. "Tell me everything. Have a drink. Refreshments?"

Tav blinked as if they had run into a brick wall. Raphael exploited their surprise by pressing a wine goblet into their hand and guiding them into the desired direction.

They flopped down with their wine sloshing dangerously high in the goblet. It didn't spill though. A pity, but something akin might be happening later. Raphael licked his lips.

Once sitting, Tav gulped down half of the wine in one go. A waste considering the quality of it but the mortal didn't even notice the taste. "I don't even know who that devil was. I don't deal with devils on a regular basis, you know?"

"And you didn't think to ask their name?"

"I don't believe a word they said. Why would I believe the name they gave? Also, they wore a glamour. Four meter devilshape is drawing attention. So they glamoured themselves to look like-" Tav hesitated.

Raphael moved closer and swirled his wine. "To look like who?"

"Um." Tav blushed. "The type of woman I prefer."

"A successful ploy judging by your reaction." A wrench in the works, maybe. Korrilla reported a certain interest in the druid elf travelling with the group.

"The only success." Tav snorted and slurped up the rest of their wine. "Anyway, they wanted me to spy for them. On you," Tav added seeing the incomprehension on Raphael's face. "They want me to sell you out. Your secrets and stuff. Whatever gave them the impression I am a good choice for that."

Tav shook their head and stared into the empty goblet. Oblivious. Raphael suppressed a sigh. Maybe it would be wise to keep it that way. They would certainly be a liability. He was far from admitting that it was part of their charm. So easily fooled and yet so firm in their beliefs.

"They must have given reasons," he prompted.

Another snort from Tav. "They said you have a soft spot for me. Said, you were, can you believe it, enamoured with me." Tav looked up to find Raphael's brown eyes reasting heavily on them. They swallowed. "Anyway, I stopped listening when they kept repeating that instead of giving their actual reasoning."

"Ah." Raphel picked the empty goblet from their unresisting hand. "I see."

It was unfortunate that his – lenience towards his little mouse should be known in infernal circles. That offer would not be the last of them. This time, Tav decided to come to him. But who knew how their decision would fall in the future? Once his deal was concluded and other devils found tempting prizes for Tav. He needed a solution.

"I know. It's ridiculous." Tav leant back and spread their arms over the backrest.

Raphael turned away to refill their cup. Tav sitting like an open invitation was a little too on the nose. Did they really not know? Or were they stringing him along, trying to weasel some kind of confession out of him? And if he did, would it be worth it? Raphael scrounged his nose in thought as he poured them more wine.

"I mean, it's all very professional, is it not? You give me a hammer with which I can free Orpheus who will solve all my problems. I give you a crown that will solve all of yours." Tav shook their head. "You're not even coming for my soul."

"As yet." Raphael smiled like a promise and a threat. "Who knows what will happen once you sign my deal and we conclude it successfully?"

"So you have further plans with me?" Tav frowned.

"Perhaps." He took a step towards them. "It depends entirely on whether you are willing."

Tav narrowed their eyes. Willing to do what? Was – was his top button undone? That sure hadn't been the case when they arrived. The words of the other devil echoed through heir head. Soft spot. Enamoured even. Balderdash. Wasn't it? Admittedly, Gale had said something about roses and serenades as well. But Gale was a hopeless romantic.

Tav stopped to look around. A suite, tiles covered in rose petals. Wine. Refreshments. A pool inviting with soaps, oils and lotions. A bed, not even hidden from view with plush pillows and ample space. Raphael, in the middle of the room a goblet of wine in one hand.

Tav reached out. When Raphael handed them the goblet, they emptied it in one go. Shaking their head, Tav grunted. "I need something stronger than that, I think."

"That can be arranged," Raphael purred, pleased that realisation finally set in.

Glancing to the door Tav wondered if they'd make it while the devil was distracted. But Raphael cheated, by simply appearing a bottle of whisky and a filled tumbler in his hands.

"Anything else?"

"How about some privacy?"

"As you wish." With a flick of his hand, the lock of the door clicked audibly.

Tav swallowed. Doomed. They picked the whisky from the devil's hand who made sure their fingers touched more than necessary. Maybe if they got drink fast enough – But who were they kidding? He was a devil and one that looked at them like a cat that found a cream-covered mouse to play with. Detected.

The unveil hunger emanating from Raphael burnt in Tav's stomach even without a single drop of whisky. Words from another place wormed their way back into Tav's wavering conscience. Swallowing once more, they pulled up their tunic slowly and poured some of their drink into their belly button. It ran over because they didn't look away from the devil's intense gaze.

Raphael smiled greedily. He opened another button on his doublet and knelt before them.

Caught. Tav closed their eyes as hot lips closed in on their skin.

[xcziel]

Liu Chang in Overworking Man

😂😂😂 I'm dying, he's going to be SO MEMEABLE - if only there would be english subtitles 😢

[original text: #职场新人可以说不吗# #短剧滚动吧小齿轮#菜鸟杨可以@刘畅木法沙 携手鬼畜上司叶守愚@淮文Shawn 、奇葩同事林开心@文生 闯荡职场不停歇，成长治愈收获多！今日起@腾讯视频 @腾讯微视 全网独播，每周二三四12:00更新，会员抢先看6集！ 短剧滚动吧小齿轮的微博视频]

[yourfangirlfriend]

It’s Nothing Serious - Chapter Four

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Notes: Idk someone’s reading this

——————————

“It’s not serious.”

You almost turn and walk back to your apartment.

Instead, you blink at him.

“Isn’t that shirt supposed to be white? ”

He closes his eyes and brings hand up to face and sighs.

“It’s not-“

“It’s a gunshot!”

“Is this going to be a lecture? Or did you want to drink?”

You shake your head and push past him, swinging the bottle of whiskey you brought him like you’re about to bring it down on his coffee table. You hear the door close behind you and turn.

“Alright. Let me see it.”

“What?”

“I’m not giving you a drink until I see it.” You pluck the whiskey back up from the table, holding it up.

“I have my own-“

“Javier, you stubborn fucking man-“

“ Fine.” He brings his hands up to his neckline and begins to strip off his bloody shirt. You stand there waiting, grinding your teeth when he pulls off his right shoulder and you see the bloody bandaging underneath. He tosses his shirt to the floor and brings his hands to his hips, before bringing them forward and gesturing, as if to say “enough?”

“Fuck, man!” You stride forward, stopping just in front of him. You raise your hand as if to touch, but pull back. You look back up at him, horrified.

“It’s not a real gunshot wound.”

“Oh, just a figurative one?”

“I-“ he turns his head to the side and growls in frustration. You ignore the feeling it causes between your legs. “It’s just a graze. It didn’t go through.”

You fix him with a look. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe you’re reacting like this. “Am I clear?”

You drop your arms from where you had them crossed and turn back, making your way to the kitchen. “Alcohol thins your blood and delays healing.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” He sits back on the couch, stretching his arms out across the back and dropping his head back. You return to the couch with two glasses, sitting down next to him.

“You’re not taking those pills with this, are you?” You nod to the bottle on the coffee table’s edge. He lifts his leg up and kicks the bottle off. What a baby.

“If you were going to come nurse me, you could have at least worn the little dress.” He reaches and takes the whiskey you offer him. You roll your eyes and relax into the couch beside him, taking a sip.

“How long did they send you home for?” You ask, your eyes falling back to the bandage.

“Two days rest, a week desk work.” He takes another drink.

“Aw, a pencil pusher like the rest of us,” you reach forward and pinch his cheek. He reaches up and seats your hand away. You giggle.

“You’re annoying,” he says, reaching to the side table for a pack of cigarettes. Despite his statement, he pulls a second one out for you.

“I hang around children all day.” You reach out with your lighter and light the two ends for him. He holds the second one out for you. “Probably why I get along with you so well.”

“Ha ha,” he deadpans. He leans back, exhaling a long puff of smoke. The two of you sit in a not uncomfortable silence for a moment. You look around his apartment, scanning for any signs of personality, but find it lacking. No pictures, no books, even the tv looks dusty. You bring the glass to you lips again before asking:

“What are you going to do for two days laid up?”

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

“No but really,” you say. “Like, you going to knit or something?”

“What?”

“I’m trying to ask what do you do for fun?”

He turns and looks at you like you just asked who the president was.

“You’ve seen it,” he says after a beat, dropping his eyes back down and leaning forward to ash. “You’ve been it.”

“And what an honor it was,” you nudge him with your foot. “Come on, not even reading?”

He shakes his head and gestures outwardly. “I fucking hunt down drug traffickers all day, alright? I count corpses for fun, how about that? What do you do, late night book club with third-rate soccer players?”

You frown and put your drink down on the coffee table. Standing, you bend over to put out your cigarette.

“If you want to be a dick, you can drink on your own.” You make to walk past him. “I’ll see you around.”

You hear him sigh behind you.

“El, wait.”

El?

You turn and see him standing, bent over to stub the cigarette out. When he stands straight, you avoid gazing down at the way his jeans fall on his hips.

“I’m sorry, alright?” He says.

You don’t say anything.

He sighs and drops his head. “Today was bad. It’s been bad for a while. I thought I was handling it, wasn’t letting it affect me but...well,” he gestures to his bandage. Your stomach drops seeing the blood again. He waits for a response but when you’re still quiet, he throws his arms up, exasperated. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? I don’t want to be a dick, I just want to drink and smoke and” his eyes dart anywhere else in the room. “...hang out with you and think about something else.” He drops his hands to his side, before looking back at you.

You narrow your eyes and take slow determined steps forward until you’re in front of him. Maintaining eye contact, you bend down and pick up his glass of whiskey, bringing it up for a long pointed sip. You swallow, then extend your fore finger, pointing to his face.

“... second rate soccer player,” you correct.

And it takes everything to maintain your character and not to join him as he bursts out laughing.

———————

“Javi, no, I’m too drunk-“

“It’s just a bandage-“

“I’m not good with blood!“

“You said your dad hunts-“

“Thisisafuckingfleshwound!” You snap. You’re swaying in the doorway of his bathroom, squaring off against him as he leans against the sink.

“I can’t lift my arm, hermosa.” He says. “I need some help.”

You stare at him, a frown on your face. When he shrugs.

“Fine!” You huff, putting you whiskey down on the floor. You go to stand in front of him and take a deep inhale.

“...in order to change a bandage-“

“Shut up,” you cut him off. Nodding at your own resolve, you bite your lip and reach up to grab the corner. Quickly, perhaps too quickly judging by the way Javi flinches, you rip the bandage off.

“Ugh!” You make a vomit sound. It’s much deeper than you thought it would be. Even if it was a graze, that’s a fucking gun shot wound. The angry, red stitches seep with blood.

“I told you! I told you about the alcohol thinning thing!” You say.

“Can you just-?”

“God, it’s so deep-“

“Eloise, put the fu-“

You pull the new bandage open and grimace as you hold it up, hovering over the deep, ugly line. Gently, gently as you can, you press down on the adhesive, nibbling at your lip when it looks like he’s in pain. When you finish you step back, like the thing might bite you.

“There- there!” You say.

“You did it.” Then, he brings both his hands up to run along the outside, smithing it. Be breaks into a smile when sees the face you make. “Pretty good for a beginner.”

“You asshole! I told you I don’t like blood!” You reach forward and push his shoulder. Immediately he hissed in pain. “Shit! Shit! Shit! I’m sorry! I’m sorry-“

———

“I should...take a pain pill,” he says from behind you as he lays down, eyes closed on the couch. You sit up from where you’re sat in front of him, smoking a cigarette, and turn to chide him.

“ No.” You slur. “You’ll...you’ll die.”

He blows a raspberry.

“Shut up, that’s how Judy Garland died!” You turn back forward and lay your head back, resting on his arm. You close your eyes.

“It hurts,” he says.

“You’ve just got to focus on something else. You can will your consciousness-“

“Christ, your parents really were hippies.”

“-fucking told you- anyway, don’t think about that. Think about...” you smack your lips, trying to think. “How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

He laughs. “Psssh. What?”

“I bet you were 15.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Were you?”

“...sixteen,” he concedes. “What about you?”

“...how long ago did we first have sex?”

“... What-“

You let out a deep belly laugh. “Oh my god, you are so gullible. I can’t believe you’re a fucking agent-“

“- I didn’t actually believe you!.”

“Yeah, alright.” You shake your head.

“...Well?”

“What?”

“How old?”

You take a deep sigh. “Twenty.”

He laughs. “Nerd.”

“Slut.”

He nudges your head with his shoulder, and you break out in a smile.

“See? Not hurting anymore.”

————

“-No, where Carter went wrong-“

“Oh please regale me, Mr. ‘Nixon Had his Good traits’ -“

“Will you listen-“

“I bet you voted for Reagan-“

“ Don’t insult me-“

________

“Oh wow.”

“What?”

“No just, you being an only child makes sense.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?” You laugh.

He smiles, looking away from you. “That I’m...independent...”

You laugh harder.

—————-

“Apartment looks like a serial killer’s-“

“What?”

“Put one picture of your mother up-“

————

“...I should buy a boat-“

“- You should totally buy a boat.”

——————

You wake up to a room lit up by the blue that precedes the rising sun. You pull your head up from where you’ve been leaned back, still resting on Javi’s arm. Pushing up onto your feet like a baby deer, you survey the damage left on the coffee table. The whiskey bottle is empty, and a few cans of beer are scattered across countless cigarette butts and ash, the result of an upturned ashtray and drunken laziness. Deciding it’s a job for later, you turn to Javi, who’s still asleep, mouth agog.

“Javi,” you reach forward and shake him. He barely stirs. You shake him again. “Javier.”

He jolts away, turning towards you rapidly. In the second he doesn’t recognise where he is, his eyes flash in such a way your chest aches. “What...”

“We fell asleep in your living room ...and I am still very drunk...” you swallow. “But you need to sleep in a bed. Come on.” You reach your hand down to pull him up. He takes your hand, standing slowly. You wrap your arm around his waist, urging him back towards his bedroom.

When you get to the edge of the bed, you deposit him on the edge of his mattress. You hear him him as you walk to the adjoining bathroom and fill the cup of water there. You try and drink as slowly as possible, and refill it after you’ve downed the cup. Walking back to the bed, you shake Javi awake once again.

“Javi-“

“Mmrpff.”

“Sit up and drink this.”

His eyes still closed, he sits up and takes the glass. He gulps it down before handing it back in your vague direction. You place it on the table beside him.

“Before I go-“

“Wha? No, don’t be stupid.” He reaches up and pulls you down to lay beside him. He turns on his back, giving you some room “Go to sleep.”

You open your mouth to protest, but you then you think...why not. You’re still drunk, and while you know it’s going to hurt in the morning and you’ll want nothing more to be in your own bed, in your own wallowing, something’s keeping you on the mattress beside him. Convenience, you decide.

“These sheets better be washed,” you mumble as you settle in beside him. You hear him chuckle before you’re asleep.

———————

You’re right.

It does hurt.

You can barely open your eyes before the morning light is giving you a headache. Turning away from the light, you open your eyes further to see Javi standing by the bed, the pain pills bottle open and in his hand.

He looks rough, and he’s ready for you to scold him. He holds up a hand in pre defence.

“Don’t -“

“Sssh,” you wave your hand. You reach out your palm. “Give me two.”

—————

The two of you wake again a few hours later. In your drugged, heavy sleep you seem to have gone diagonal in the bed, forcing Javier to the edge, your face pressed into the back of his neck. You try righting yourself, giving him some room as you stretch. You sit up and press the heel of your palm into your eyes, shaking your head. You turn to look down at your companion, who’s stirred awake.

“What time is it?” He murmurs. You turn to look at the clock.

“1:30,” you say. He shakes his head.

“Not ready.”

“Me neither.” You say. You feel a tug on your shirt from behind you, urging you back. You give in, and lay back. He puts his chin on your shoulder, burying his nose in your neck, an arm sling across your front.

“Hmmm,” he says as way of an invitation.

And you drift back off.

————

When you both wake up again at 4:40, you pull him out of bed and into the living room to try and get some food in him. All he wants, though, are cigarettes. It turns into a tense negotiation, with you threatening to light his pack up on the gas stove if he didn’t try to at least east a piece of toast. After the first, though, neither of you can get enough, and you end up making the worlds shittiest grilled, hungover cheese sandwiches. When you’re both sat at the table on your second sandwich, you raise your head.

“We slept the whole day, and I still feel like shit. And now my sleep schedules fucked.”

“We could go back to sleep,” he says taking another eager bite.

“How is that possible? We slept about 12 hours.”

He holds up the pill bottle, rattling it.

“...Aren’t you in the DEA?” You hold out your hand.

He pops the lid and deposits two in your palm before dropping two more in his own. “I’m off today.”

————————

When you wake up on Sunday morning around 11, he’s already up, sitting on the couch with a coffee and plate of eggs. As you wander into his periphery, he turns to look at you.

“Made coffee,” he holds up his mug. “Eggs.”

“Thanks,” you walk over to the sink and fill up a glass of water. You walk over to the couch and drop into the corner. He’s still shirtless in his jeans, but looks a lot cheerier.

You, on the other hand.

“Ugh,” you bring the glass to your mouth taking a deep gulp before continuing. “I have to grade so much today,”

“They’re kids, how hard could it be?” He shakes his head. “I’d kill for some work right now.”

“I have a pile over the past few weeks. They’re writing assignments, I have...have to leave little notes on each one...on their grammar.”

You’re both quiet for a second before he realises what you’re thinking.

“Javi-“

“No.”

“You just said it would be easy.”

“I want real work.”

“Wow.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Come on,” you moan. He shakes his head.

“No.”

“...I’ll suck your dick.”

————

“...is this comma supposed to be there?”

“Let me see? ......Ah, no. -2.”

“...kind of severe.”

——-

By the time he’s pants up, hands shaky as he recovers from frankly some of the best fellatio you’ve ever performed, the sun is just about to set. You finish your sip of water from where you’re stood in the kitchen, skimming over the assignments to check they all have a grade. When he comes up to kitchen, his hands pressed into his back pockets, you look up and give him a smile.

“Good job,” you say.

He nods and reaches for the water. You return to his bedroom to pull on the jeans you had discarded two nights earlier, the first time he had pulled you into bed to sleep, returning minutes later. When he turns and sees you, he raises his eye brows.

“Headed out?”

“Desperately need a shower.” You walk to the counter and pick up the papers. You examine his bandage. “How you feeling?”

“Better,” he runs a finger along the underside. “They said I can come in a day earlier, but they want me to stay home tomorrow.”

“Didn’t even offer to bring you homework?” You ask. He shrugs.

“Steve might. Not til 5 though.”

“A whole day of nothing.” You make a face.

“...I like reading.” He says. You look back up at him.

“Huh?”

“For fun.” he  clarifies. Then, as if realizing he may have just disclosed something, he clears his throat and looks away “Maybe I’ll find something.” He says. He nods to the door. “I’ll see you out.”

You walk with him to the door and wait as he unlocks it. Holding it open he leans against it.

You’re about to say goodbye when he leans forward and catches you in a kiss. It’s longer than you would have expected from him, given whatever this arrangement was. Yet you’re not pulling away. When he finally does break, you find yourself leaning forward, chasing his lips.

“Get home safe,” he says. You roll your eyes, making for your door. When you get it open, you look up and see him still watching you. You look down and smile, pressing forward and closing the door behind you.

A moment later, you rap three times on your shared wall.

If you’re not mistaken, you hear a muffled laugh.

————

When he opens the door at 7:00 the next morning, he’s surprised to see you on the mat.

“Hey,” he says, pressing his hand into his eye, rubbing the sleep out. “What-“

“Sorry, I have to get to the school early, but,” you reach out your items to him. Still bleary eyed, it takes him a moment to focus.

“I bought them at the airport when I came down,” you shrug. “They’re shit, but they hold your attention. This one actually is decent by the end, if you can push through .” You tap the cover on top. “Just in case you need something to do.”

He looks up at you, his face still perplexed. You shake you head.

“You’re welcome,” you sigh. You turn and begin walking to the door when you hear him behind you.

“Hey,” he says. You turn and see him standing on the mat, outside of his house. He holds up the stack. “Thanks.”

You stop and sigh.

Then you smile.

“Just take care of yourself today. Don’t need that bursting open the minute you don’t have adult supervision.” You point to has bandage before turning to walk out. Just before the door closes, you hear it.

“It’s not serious!!”

[frozensnowwitch]

Deed of the Invisible Weasel Ch. 3

“Secrecy and Silence”

Anna met Elsa and Kristoff at the castle entrance and opened her mouth to pepper her sister with questions when she saw the man in red and gold and Elsa’s stern expression. Anna instead prepared herself and Olaf for the guest and wondered about his identity. She was curious as to why Elsa had gone from so playful to so stern in such a short amount of time. She knew from watching from a vantage point in the window that no shots had been fired, but she also knew that the man had come with guards who had not disembarked with him. Who was this mysterious man?

“The luscious Princess Anna,” the man said, and he bowed grandly when he and Elsa and Kristoff got close enough. Both Elsa’s and Kristoff’s eyes widened. Elsa instantly regained her composure, but Kristoff openly glared. He reached for Anna’s hand and he kissed it tenderly before rising. “I am Duke Archibald Sauer of Weselton.” Anna gave a small curtsy and looked over at her sister with uncertainty.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Duke,” Anna said. Olaf pushed forward from behind her and smiled sunnily at the Duke who looked fascinated at the moving snowman.

“Hi! I’m Olaf and I love warm hugs!” Olaf declared with his typical huge smile.

“Is this an example of your miraculous abilities, Queen Elsa?” The Duke of Weselton asked enthusiastically. Elsa nodded and Olaf clasped his hands together, embarrassed to be called a miracle. Weselton whistled appreciatively. “My uncle was a fool to be frightened by such a talent, Your Majesty.” Elsa led the group into the castle. After a short pause, the Duke began to speak again. “I know what you’re thinking – Weselton...didn’t we forbid them from our land and stop all trades with them once and for all? You’re absolutely right, and with good reason, too! My uncle did a great disservice to both Arendelle and Weselton in his last and only visit, but I have come to restore your faith in our people and land.” Weselton spoke expressively and waved his hands as they walked. “I hope to broker a deal with your Dear Queen Elsa to reinstate our trades and our friendship.” He explained. Anna nodded and again glanced at Elsa who looked stoic and every bit the strong leader she was.

“I’ve invited the Duke to join us for lunch while his servant returns to his ship to retrieve his personal effects,” Elsa told Anna. “I would appreciate it if you and Kristoff joined us, Anna,” Elsa said in a voice that left no room for discussion.

“I do have an excellent addition to our meal that Andreas will bring to us straight away,” said the Duke. “It should arrive just in time for dessert. I have brought several Weseltonian specialties for Your Highnesses’ enjoyment including one of my personal favorites, a cheese called Jenny Cheddar.” Weselton spoke in a lively manner that left Olaf wide-mouthed with laughter.

“That sounds lovely, Duke.” Elsa responded cordially. “Perhaps we can try it with our tea.”

“That does indeed sound lovely. It’s so nice of you to rearrange your busy schedule for me today, Your Majesty.” The Duke smiled as the small group walked past several suits of armor and down a staircase.

“Actually,” Elsa said, “You will have to wait until evening. Today I was planning to see the people of Arendelle and I don’t expect them to wait until another day simply because a duke showed up unannounced.” Elsa waited for his response as if she dared him to contradict her. He stared at her with his eyes agog and mouth agape before regaining his composure and nodding.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the Duke said and dipped his head deeply as a sign of his apology. “How rude of me to presume.”

“Princess Anna, however, will take you to see the sights of the village of Arendelle this afternoon along with its surrounding area. Our servant Kai will make sure that your own servant has everything he needs to get your room set to your standards, and he will receive quarters among our staff,” Elsa told him as they arrived at the dining room. She entered and walked regally to the chair at the head of the table and sat first. Anna sat at her right side with Olaf next to her, and Kristoff sat at her left. The Duke sat next to Kristoff.

Almost as soon as they sat, Kai came in with Andreas who was carrying what looked like a large black hat case. Weselton smiled widely and took the case from Andreas and thanked him copiously before turning back to the table.

“This is the coup de grace of Weselton’s greatest assets: Jenny Cheddar. You’ll find it has a taste more unique than any other in the known world and its flavor is divine. You’ll notice it has a certain spice unlike other cheeses while maintaining a certain sweet nuttiness. It also takes very little to fill you, so it’s very economical these days. The cheese also has a very unusual aroma. It’s indescribable and bold – the very scent of it is enough to make a more delicate lady swoon,” The Duke of Weselton explained happily. He opened the case and a miasma filled the room.

Using the tea saucers, Weselton put a large chunk of Jenny Cheddar on Elsa’s plate, some on Anna’s plate, a slab for Kristoff, and then some for himself and Olaf. The semi-gelatinous black and white cheese jiggled like a belly dancer on each of the saucers. “This cheese is made using our finest donkeys’ milk and then refined over a ten-year process. Because of its long processing time the cheese used to be only available to the richest people of Weselton, but our trade arrangements have allowed us to make the cheese cheap enough that it has become a commodity that can be found in every home in Weselton. Furthermore, it has helped to prevent starvation!” The Duke stated happily.

“We are truly very proud of our Jenny Cheddar. That’s one of the reasons I brought it along – Jenny Cheddar is a real taste of Weselton and part of its trading assets,” Weselton said proudly. “It could become a common item in every Arendellian home, and a source of food stability in the long, cold winters.” Anna and Elsa smiled politely. Kristoff looked uncertain. Olaf had already started piling the cheese into his mouth joyfully. Elsa looked somewhat paler than normal, and Anna attributed that to knowing she would have to taste the cheese.

“I look forward to tasting it,” Elsa said with a deferential smile. She picked up a piece of the globby cheddar with her fork, and Anna and Kristoff watched with fascination as she put it into her mouth. Elsa still looked pale as the cheese entered her mouth, and Anna did not envy her older sister in that moment. Elsa gulped loudly and obviously was struggling to keep her composure. “How piquant,” she said diplomatically after a moment, before burping softly, and dabbing her mouth and eyes with a napkin. Elsa took a few deep breaths and a sip of water from the glass in front of her.

“That’s the perfect word to describe Jenny Cheddar, Your Majesty!” The Duke replied enthusiastically. “I knew a woman of your caliber would understand the depths of its flavor!” Elsa appeared thoughtful for a few moments and when she stood the entire table looked at her in surprise. Elsa swayed slightly on her feet.

“A-anna,” Elsa said shakily, “I need to retire to my chambers. If you could pl-please – “ Elsa stopped speaking, closed her eyes, and reached a trembling hand to her forehead. A deep flush spread across her face and she leaned forward against the table heavily.

“Elsa?” Anna questioned as she forgot all manners and got up to grab her sister’s elbow. “Are you all right?” Elsa let go of her forehead and reached for her sister. “Elsa, what’s wrong? Kristoff, get a servant to call for Dr. Rosted now.” Anna ordered. She immediately caught Elsa’s hand to steady her. Elsa leaned between Anna and the table.

“Are you swooning from the scent of the cheese, My Queen?” The Duke asked and he started to stand with a quirky grin on his face. Kristoff returned and got behind Elsa. Olaf stared in worry, his hands in front of his open mouth.

“Elsa, what’s wrong?” Anna held her sister up gently, yet firmly. “Kristoff, help me!” Anna hissed forgetting about the servants in the room. Elsa moaned and began sinking slowly toward the ground. Anna tried to keep Elsa on her feet, but eventually Kristoff scooped her up gently.

“Now what?” he asked. Elsa dangled limply in his arms.

“It’s the cheese,” the Duke said confidently. “I’ve seen this before; she’ll wake in a few moments. Or we could splash her face with water. He picked up his water glass and started to move it towards Elsa. Before either Anna or Kristoff could say anything, he had tossed its contents into Elsa’s face and the water was dripping down ineffectually. “Oh, that usually works,” Weselton said and blushed. “She must be of a much more delicate constitution than the average woman. How unusual for a queen.” Everyone ignored him.

“Let’s take her to her room.” Anna decided. “Duke, I’m sorry, but lunch is over.” Anna told Weselton as she led Kristoff and Olaf toward the door. Elsa suddenly made a strangulated groaning sound and arched her back in Kristoff’s arms. Her arms reached forward strangely and crossed one another. Much to everyone’s horror, Elsa began to shake furiously. Kristoff dove for the floor with Elsa so she wouldn’t fall out of his arms.

“I’ve never known anyone to react to the cheese like this!” Weselton exclaimed. “Here!” The Duke reached for and grabbed a spoon from the table. “Put this into her mouth so she doesn’t swallow her tongue!” Anna took the spoon and rubbed her thumb against it as she waited for an opportunity to insert it into her sister’s mouth.

“We need Dr. Rosted in here right now!” Anna screamed impatiently. Bloody, foamy saliva escaped from Elsa’s mouth and her lips started tuning pale bluish in color.

Dr. Rosted and Kai were suddenly at their sides.

“What happened? Did she hit her head?” Dr. Rosted asked.

“She was acting like something wrong and then she fell.” Anna told him as she watched her sister continue to seize. “She was eating prior to that. I don’t know why this happened. Will she be all right?” Anna asked desperately. Elsa’s frenetic movements slowed and then stopped altogether. She began sucking in deep and full breaths and her lips returned to a normal color.

“The Queen’s seizure has stopped for now. Let’s get her to her chambers where I may examine her properly,” Dr. Rosted suggested. He checked Elsa’s breathing, and once satisfied, Kristoff picked her up to carry her to her room.

“Let’s go!” Anna said, forgetting all semblances of comportment. She stood and left the room and the luncheon without further comment to the Duke.

“I hope the Queen regains her health quickly!” Weselton called as they exited, and sat back down at the table alone to dine.

[inquisitorhotpants]

Jedi: Fallen Order Review

Okay, I was super resistant to getting this game because I have no interest in playing games as a boring-ass white guy. If I could pick my character in 2005, there’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to pick my character now. So I was like “nope, sorry, I was very excited but I’m going to pass, thank you.”

Now that we’re sheltering in place, it was on sale and I was like, “okay, why not? If it sucks, at least I didn’t spend that much money on it.”

... it did not suck.

In fact, it’s in the #2 spot on my list of Best Star Wars Games.

Let’s get the critiques out of the way first:

Boring white dude protag

Honestly, as much as I liked Cal, I wouldn’t have had to warm up to him so much if I could have at least picked male or female character. “But the character is canon” is the worst reason to decide he needs to be a pasty white guy. The worst.

The combat was uneven at times

I played it on story mode because I was there for the story. Most of the time it was fine, and then other times, inexplicably, I could hit nothing and ended up burning through all my stims trying to stay alive fighting trash. It was frustrating af to be nose to nose with a bad guy and the only sound I hear is my lightsaber whiffing.

The game was clearly not in any way configured for PC.

Even when you start it up, it’s like “well, you CAN play it with a keyboard, technically, but you should really have a game controller.” Look, I don’t play this kind of stuff on the console because I am not good with dual analog sticks. Please take the time to make a keyboard configuration that makes sense, game devs, thanks.

And now the good:

Beedee is the goodest boy.

There is no arguing with this. BD-8 is the bestest droid buddy anyone could ask for. One of his scenes made me cry, okay?

I really did care about Cal.

This one surprised me, and I attribute it almost entirely to Cameron Monaghan’s voice acting. I really did like Cal. I wanted him to succeed. I wanted to see him regain his connection to the Force. I just wanted him to have a break cause man he deserves one.

The way they incorporated Cal’s memories and training and the Purge were fantastic.

I cried when we finally saw what happened. It broke my heart.

All the locations are gorgeous and photo mode is so much fun.

If I hadn’t been streaming the whole game, I’d have spent HOURS taking pictures.

The campaign is short because there are no side quests, and yet it doesn’t feel like the game is missing anything.

Even when I went back to one of the earlier planets to look for treasures I’d missed, I couldn’t shake this nagging feeling that I needed to be doing something else. I finally gave up and went back to finish the main storyline before doing anything else.

The last 3.5 hours are a fucking ride oh my god

Cried three times. Literally exclaimed HOLY SHIT out loud in shock and surprise and fear (and then died because I was just sitting there agog and couldn’t react in time).

I did not sign up for this many fucking feels from an EA game.

Darth Vader is my favorite character and has been since I was little. I have never been *scared* when he showed up until this game. xD

The music is great - fits very well into the universe without ripping off earlier music.

The one exemption to this is when you’re finally seeing the Purge, they use Revenge of the Sith music to great effect. Ugh it’s HEARTBREAKING.

It FELT like Star Wars.

Huge and vast and weird and scary and yet you still get all the rule of cool (lightsaber combat! running on walls! oh man when it works right it’s PHENOMENAL) and familiarity.

The gameplay is basically “Star Wars meets Tomb Raider”

When it works it’s an absolute marvel (sometimes that timing can really fuck you up lmao). So much fun.

found family found family fOUND FAMILY

Honestly, I know I’m going to go back to get 100% completion and I’m definitely going to play it again.

[ladyloveandjustice]

The Great Ace Attorney Replay: Dual Destinies DLC, the Finale

TIME TO SAVE SASHA

Phoenix: All right team, let’s do our best! I have faith we can save Sasha together!

Athena: It sure feels nice to be part of a great group like this! I just want to say I really love working here with all you fabulous people. Thanks for bringing me aboard, Boss!

Phoenix: S-Same here Athena. (She’s so earnest, she’s making me blush.)

Athena is an actual angel, I love how much she loves everyone around her and is so happy to be here.

Pearl is SO excited about “forensicking”, now I want her and Ema to hang out.

Athena: My first collaborative work with Pearly!

Their friendship gives me life. (I love how much Athena and Sasha love each other too. Sasha’s like “YOU’RE GREAT” and Athena’s like “NO YOU’RE GREAT.” It’s adorb how Sasha ducked under the partition to cry when we said we’d defend her 2.)

Someone may have poisoned the whale and Athena is PISSED

Athena: WHO WOULD DO SUCH A THING TO ORLA. IF I GET MY HANDS ON THEM, I’LL RIP THEM TO SHREDS!

Phoenix is all omg Athena follow the law when it comes to punishment. Now he knows how Miles feels with Kay. They can bond over having daughters who are ready to fite everyone.

Simon comes in to the aquarium all chained up and is like “you don’t care about the defendant you guys are totally just doing this for money don’t lie to me”. 1. Simon do you even know anything about Phoenix he is perpetually on the verge of bankruptcy and 2. you KNOW FOR A FACT Athena became a lawyer for YOU why are you trying to provoke her simon what is your goal with this

PROVOKE HER SIMON DOES! ATHENA IS SO MAD. Her reaction to this is to SPLASH HIM with the water they’re standing near I’m serious. Phoenix is aGHAST.

 “oH NO...SHE HIT HIM WITH THAT WATER....HE DOESN’T SEEM TO CARE THOUGH...?????”

okay though can you just imagine this scene. Simon makes his comment, Athena immediately stomps over to the water, and, looking Simon dead in the eye as she does, splashes him so he is completely drenched. He just stands there, soaked, water dripping off his manacles. His suit is ruined. His hair is sodden. His eyeliner is smudged. His expression doesn’t change at all. It is still completely neutral. His gaze is still locked with Athena, eye contact unwavering. 

Athena also stand there, glaring, for several long seconds and then stomps away. Simon remains where he is, face still utterly blank. Everyone watches this scene unfold with dumbstruck expressions.

TELL ME THAT IS NOT HILARIOUS. HOW DID PHOENIX NOT REALIZE THEY KNEW EACH OTHER.

(This is the kind of Simon and Athena friendship/surrogate family content I want tbh. Simon being all intimidating goth making withering comments and then Athena just...throws water on his face like she disciplining a grumpy cat. Or just drags him away by the ear. And he just resigns himself to it. Everyone is like “HOLY SHIT WHO IS THIS GIRL”)

Okay so we go back to the office and i kid you not, I can just hand Apollo a dead fish as Phoenix and be like “Apollo cook this for me”

Apollo is like “MR. WRIGHT WHAT THE FUCK WHY ARE YOU CARRYING THIS” “it’s for the penguin” “THEN WHY THE HELL DID YOU JUST GIVE IT TO ME TO COOK” “I dunno I was hungry” aMAZING. I love that even if he’s no longer a hobo, Phoenix is still totally down to fuck with Apollo. Apollo’s like “jesus if you love raw fish so much then we can just go out for sushi after the case” and Athena and Phoenix are like “YAY APOLLO’S BUYING US SUSHI” and Apollo’s like “I should have never opened my mouth”

APOLLO’S SUFFERING IS ETERNAL

u know actually i was wrong. Apollo is not as screwed over as Athena was in the other dlc. At least he gets to help us and is there as a consulting option.

The fact this dude has a baby penguin living in his hair makes the entire case worth it on its own tbh.

Pearl says she’ll help us by guarding the orca and helping it communicate through court. Rimes is all “omg but it’s dangerous” and Pearl’s basically like “I don’t care I have no fear.” YAY PEARL. TIME FOR COURT. 

The Judge is AGOG over this baby penguin’s cuteness, which offends Simon since he didn’t react that way to Taka. “T-Taka is fine too!”

And NOW there’s a part where we choose to cross-examine the orca. If we choose to cross-examine her the Judge is all “MR. WRIGHT THE ORCA CAN’T TALK” but when we choose the right answer he’s all “aw i thought knowing you you’d cross-examine the orca. i’m kinda bummed it didn’t happen”. WELL IT COULD HAVE IF YOU’D LET ME JUDGE! MAKE UP YOUR MIND!

Phoenix was all “oh no what should i do” so Athena OBJECTed on his behalf and told him she’s speaking up for him bc she knows he hasn’t given up! At which point he’s all “YEAH TIME TO GO BACK TO THE OLD WRIGHT WAY” and what is the Wright way? CROSSEXAMINING ANIMALS, DUH. TIME TO INTERROGATE AN ORCA.

Here’s Orla’s all-important testimony: “fweeet fweet fweet! fwe wrrr click fweet!”

I think it’s really important that Phoenix refers to the orca as “Ms. Shipley”. iirc the aa movie confirmed for me he refers to the parrot as “Sayuri-san” in the Japanese version, confirming this is a thing he does to all animals he cross-examines.

Simon: If you continue this mockery, I will subject you to forty lashes with a wet fish.

Athena: Not a wet noodle? That just sounds...fishy.

Phoenix: Hey, Speaking from experience, anything is better than forty lashes with a whip.

Franziska lives on in all our hearts.

Athena: Oooh, doesn’t Orla sing beautifully?

Simon: Hmmph! Taka’s singing voice is much more melodic and clear!

Phoenix: (Meh. Neither one should quit their day job.)

It’s a good thing Phoenix didn’t say that out loud, I’m fairly sure Simon would have actually killed him.

One thing I like about this case is that nobody involved in it is a jerk deep down, which is rare for Ace Attorney. Norma is really abrasive, but when she finds out she was mistaken about what she thought and wrote, she really regrets it and gives us information because she just wants the truth. She even decides to publish a book to correct it and goes out of her way to advocate for the aquarium and help out. She takes her job seriously. Herman is also abrasive, but turns out to really care about the animals and others and helps us out. 

And then even “the real culprit” turns out to not be a murderer- he just did something that led to an accidental death. He tried to frame the orca because he thought it killed his gf and would kill again for the murder and that was his only crime He was very adamant about not letting Sasha take the blame for the murder, though. He even tried to SAVE the victim when he fell. So he goes to jail for a few months but comes back- basically things turn out okay for everyone. It’s a pretty feel good case for Phoenix’s comeback, and I found myself liking all the characters involved to an extent- or at least respecting them as people with principals. Also, that orca is cute. It’s a cute case overall, even if it’s nothing incredible.

And with that, I AM DONE!!! DONE WITH THE ACE ATTORNEY REPLAY. It’s been a long road, but a good one. I was glad to revisit everything.

NEXT: PROFESSOR LAYTON V PHOENIX WRIGHT! TOTES NEW CONTENT. I can’t wait.

[viralhottopics]

Not so haute: six writers on their biggest fashion mistakes

From tights on the beach to head-to-toe taffeta, writers reveal the outfits they regret

Kenya Hunt My version of day-to-night dressing was a night-time look worn all day

Despite working at a fashion magazine, Ive made a few sartorial mistakes. I comfort myself with the sentiment of an Instagram edict I saw: If youve never looked a little dumb, youre not having fun.

Id count the moment I met my husband as an off day, so it pains me no end that the clothes I wore have become a part of our marital lore. In his mind, the outfit is key to a story that must be retold, again and again: She wore a shiny shirt, tight jeans, big, gold hoop earrings, tall boots and a giant white furry jacket. And I said, I need to know this woman.

This visual loudness the metallics, the big proportions, the shaggy texture was my everyday look back in my late 20s, when I was living and working in New York. I dressed this way to please no one other than myself. I relished being able finally to buy and wear the labels I read about in magazines, but could never find in my suburban childhood home in Virginia.

My version of day-to-night dressing was basically a night-time look worn all day ready for whatever fun might happen later. Id think nothing of a morning commute in glittery Miu Miu heels or a gold Chlo sequin skirt. (To be fair, it was the era of high heels, flashy coats and skirts that were either very big and long, or very short.) No matter what the prevailing trend, Ive always had a soft spot for the razzle. For further proof, see this old image of me in Milan, in bright colour and print, layered on top of more colour and print.

Now, my wardrobe stands on a foundation of grey, navy and black, mostly because it suits my lifestyle and the London weather. I limit the flamboyance to my accessories (a bright shoe, big earring, bold handbag) or show it through shape, such as an enormous puffer jacket. Its just that now I choose pragmatic black rather than hot pink.

Theres a real joy that comes with loud dressing, because it requires a certain kind of go-to-hell spirit. Ive come to indulge this in a more restrained way, but I dont regret the mistakes. If I did, Id have divorced my husband a long time ago, for telling that story so very, very often.

Kenya Hunt is fashion features director of Elle.

Ruth Lewy: To think that this was my coolest look

Ruth Lewy, aged 20, with Dizzee Rascal.

It was May 2006 and I was coming to the end of my first year of university. I had just received my first proper student journalism commission: an interview with Dizzee Rascal. I borrowed a Dictaphone and hastily scrawled down three pages of uninventive questions (What is the best thing youve ever got for free?).

Now the important bit: my look. I loved Dizzee; I knew his two albums back to front and had mastered all the words to Fix Up, Look Sharp. What was I going to wear?

To think, looking back, that this was my very best outfit. My coolest look. Not one floral print top but two, a T-shirt layered over a shirt. Not one necklace, but two. (Made with beads collected while InterRailing around Europe. I know.) My curly hair was slicked back with Brylcreem. Off I went, looking like Laura Ashleys long-lost daughter.

He was courteous, holding eye contact and answering all my inane questions with grace. (The best thing he ever got for free? A lifetimes supply of trainers.) I stood up and shook his hand, and he invited me to his afterparty. The next student journalist sat down and went straight in with a question about homophobic lyrics and issues of representation in pop music, and I thought, Ohhhh, thats what journalism is.

The evening took a strange turn. My friends and I crowded into a bar on the high street, where Dizzee had a roped-off section at the back. It didnt take him long to zone in on my gorgeous friend L, persuading her to leave with him. We were agog.

Twenty minutes later, she was back, laughing her head off at the way he had clumsily propositioned her. She chose us over him.

What do I see when I look at this picture? I feel embarrassed at my choices. But Im also glad I spent my 20s dressing like a weirdo: it demonstrates a self-confidence that I dont think I appreciated at the time. These days, you could still file most of my clothes under eclectic, but Im much more careful, uninventive even. Now I tend to wear only one necklace at a time.

My interview never appeared in the end; the other journalist broke the embargo (she went on to write for the Daily Mail: go figure). I was left with only this blurry picture, a reminder of my youthful enthusiasm for floral prints, and an uncanny impression of Dizzee Rascals best chat-up line.

Ruth Lewy is assistant editor of Guardian Weekend.

Nosheen Iqbal: Everyone else on the beach was 89% naked

Nosheen Iqbal in Tuscany, aged 21.

I was a skittish 21-year-old in the mid noughties and I had, against my will, ended up on a Tuscan beach. It was the height of summer, but I was wearing thick black tights, thicker black skirt, black scarf and witchy pumps . Everyone else was dressed in 89% naked and the entire beach was rammed. Id been sent on a work trip with four other journalists who were, as far as I was concerned, super-old (fortysomething) and, I hoped, probably willing to buy my stubborn refusal to strip as some cool youth thing. (They didnt.) I made an attempt to style it out by looking casually moody, staring out to sea behind sunglasses, pretending not to notice my shoes sinking in the sand, legs looking like inky black stumps.

Why dont you take off your tights?

No.

What about if

No.

A couple of key things: the seaside was not on my itinerary and I hadnt packed for it. I didnt (and dont) own swimwear or a bikini, and I didnt (and dont) know how to swim.

Being Muslim is barely an excuse to look as daft as I did; there are chic ways to be modest by the sea childhood memories of Karachis Clifton beach were proof, where lawn cotton tunic and trousers were everyones friend. But being Muslim, plus an average level of body dysmorphia, was my bikini body ready get-out card. I knew there had to be more comfortable ways to be in public than permanently sucking my stomach in wearing what is, essentially, waterproof underwear. But 100-denier hosiery was definitely not the answer.

The general advice to give a shy 21-year-old should always be, Its not as bad as you think, to allay their disproportionate embarrassment. Except, in this case, the cringe levels are fully warranted; I havent been to a hot, sunny beach since.

Nosheen Iqbal is a commissioning editor for G2.

Morwenna Ferrier: I cant remember why I decided to cut off my hair

Morwenna Ferrier in Aldeburgh in her early 20s.

Other outfits have been more challenging. The mother-of-pearl bustier I wore to my graduation, say. Or, recently, the T-shirt printed with Valerie Solanass Scum manifesto I wore to meet a friends baby. But the outfit I am wearing here, worn on a walk along Aldeburgh beach in Suffolk, is the one I most regret.

It started a few months earlier when, in my early 20s, I decided to cut off my hair. I cant remember why. I imagine I fancied a change and, in fairness, I liked it. But then, I looked like a boy in a dress. I reacted by phasing out dresses and instead wearing drainpipes, striped T-shirts and headscarves. None of this was good. In the photo, Im wearing tight cropped trousers under the dress.

I had spent my late teens in dresses, grungy or flowery, with self-cut hems. It was a more innocent time, when I didnt really care what I wore. But the haircut triggered an anxiety.

What is it I regret? Back then it was the haircut; now, its that I ever worried about looking like a boy. I clearly hadnt been paying attention in those Judith Butler seminars; maybe I was still too attached to the binary. As my hair grew out, I started to care for the first time about how I looked. At 24, late in life, I became self-conscious.

Morwenna Ferrier is the Guardians online fashion editor.

Pam Lucas: I looked like a turkey at Christmas

Pam Lucas at a family party, aged 39.

As a single parent in the 80s, I was dirt poor. I didnt have the opportunity to make fashion faux pas because I didnt have any money. We shopped in jumble sales, and we had fun.

My family was invited to a party to celebrate my aunt and uncles golden wedding anniversary. I didnt know them that well, but my mum wanted me to impress them by looking modern. In the 80s, that meant puffy sleeves and big shoulders. My mother came with me to buy the outfit from BHS , so I had to comply. I was 39 at the time.

It was a beautiful colour between purple and lilac but I didnt like the synthetic fabric. It was watermarked all over and had a flared, taffeta skirt and a little jacket with a peplum. I looked like a turkey at Christmas, but it was such a fab party, I soon forgot how uncomfortable I felt.

In a way the outfit is a testament to my relationship with my mother. I was a grownup, with a child of my own, but she was still trying to keep hold of the mum bit of herself.

Pam Lucas is a model and appears regularly in All Ages.

Tshepo Mokoena: I settled on a vague hippy child look

Tshepo Mokoena at 19.

It would be nice if we could start over. To spare me, and others my age, a fair bit of niggling shame, by wiping all early photos from our Facebook accounts. Anyone who set up a profile between 2004 and 2009 now lugs around the digital baggage of horrible pictures of misspent youth and terrible outfits.

Case in point: this delight of a photo. I was 19, killing time between the second and third years of uni in Brighton. In a few weeks, my housemate and I would set off on an impulsive charity volunteering trip to Kerala because and I still cringe wed watched Wes Andersons The Darjeeling Limited.

Until my early 20s, my aesthetic consisted of not knowing when to edit. At 18, I would layer at least three beaded necklaces, two chunky bracelets, about 17 bangles and seven rings, for no good reason.

I attended secondary school in Harare, Zimbabwe, largely insulated from fashion, more concerned with my whizzing hormones than the latest velour tracksuit. I settled on a vague hippy child look at 15 and filled my wardrobe with earthy prints, flared denim and jewellery picked up in local markets. By 19, I looked like a substitute art teacher.

If youre old enough to have only private, analogue photography from your youth, or young enough to have crafted a near-fictional version of yourself online, youre spared the permanent reminder of your mistakes: 1,287 grim images owned by Mark Zuckerberg. I implore other twentysomethings to join me in calling for a digital purge. Its time.

Tshepo Mokoena is the editor of Noisey.

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Not so haute: six writers on their biggest fashion mistakes

Kenya Hunt ‘My version of day-to-night dressing was a night-time look worn all day’

Despite working at a fashion magazine, I’ve made a few sartorial mistakes. I comfort myself with the sentiment of an Instagram edict I saw: “If you’ve never looked a little dumb, you’re not having fun.”

I’d count the moment I met my husband as an off day, so it pains me no end that the clothes I wore have become a part of our marital lore. In his mind, the outfit is key to a story that must be retold, again and again: “She wore a shiny shirt, tight jeans, big, gold hoop earrings, tall boots and a giant white furry jacket. And I said, ‘I need to know this woman.’”

This visual loudness – the metallics, the big proportions, the shaggy texture – was my everyday look back in my late 20s, when I was living and working in New York. I dressed this way to please no one other than myself. I relished being able finally to buy and wear the labels I read about in magazines, but could never find in my suburban childhood home in Virginia.

My version of day-to-night dressing was basically a night-time look worn all day – ready for whatever fun might happen later. I’d think nothing of a morning commute in glittery Miu Miu heels or a gold Chloé sequin skirt. (To be fair, it was the era of high heels, flashy coats and skirts that were either very big and long, or very short.) No matter what the prevailing trend, I’ve always had a soft spot for the razzle. For further proof, see this old image of me in Milan, in bright colour and print, layered on top of more colour and print.

Now, my wardrobe stands on a foundation of grey, navy and black, mostly because it suits my lifestyle and the London weather. I limit the flamboyance to my accessories (a bright shoe, big earring, bold handbag) or show it through shape, such as an enormous puffer jacket. It’s just that now I choose pragmatic black rather than hot pink.

There’s a real joy that comes with loud dressing, because it requires a certain kind of go-to-hell spirit. I’ve come to indulge this in a more restrained way, but I don’t regret the mistakes. If I did, I’d have divorced my husband a long time ago, for telling that story so very, very often.

Ruth Lewy: ‘To think that this was my coolest look’

Ruth Lewy, aged 20, with Dizzee Rascal.

It was May 2006 and I was coming to the end of my first year of university. I had just received my first proper student journalism commission: an interview with Dizzee Rascal. I borrowed a Dictaphone and hastily scrawled down three pages of uninventive questions (“What is the best thing you’ve ever got for free?”).

Now the important bit: my look. I loved Dizzee; I knew his two albums back to front and had mastered all the words to Fix Up, Look Sharp. What was I going to wear?

To think, looking back, that this was my very best outfit. My coolest look. Not one floral print top but two, a T-shirt layered over a shirt. Not one necklace, but two. (Made with beads collected while InterRailing around Europe. I know.) My curly hair was slicked back with Brylcreem. Off I went, looking like Laura Ashley’s long-lost daughter.

He was courteous, holding eye contact and answering all my inane questions with grace. (The best thing he ever got for free? A lifetime’s supply of trainers.) I stood up and shook his hand, and he invited me to his afterparty. The next student journalist sat down and went straight in with a question about homophobic lyrics and issues of representation in pop music, and I thought, “Ohhhh, that’s what journalism is.”

The evening took a strange turn. My friends and I crowded into a bar on the high street, where Dizzee had a roped-off section at the back. It didn’t take him long to zone in on my gorgeous friend L, persuading her to leave with him. We were agog.

Twenty minutes later, she was back, laughing her head off at the way he had clumsily propositioned her. She chose us over him.

What do I see when I look at this picture? I feel embarrassed at my choices. But I’m also glad I spent my 20s dressing like a weirdo: it demonstrates a self-confidence that I don’t think I appreciated at the time. These days, you could still file most of my clothes under “eclectic”, but I’m much more careful, uninventive even. Now I tend to wear only one necklace at a time.

My interview never appeared in the end; the other journalist broke the embargo (she went on to write for the Daily Mail: go figure). I was left with only this blurry picture, a reminder of my youthful enthusiasm for floral prints, and an uncanny impression of Dizzee Rascal’s best chat-up line.

Ruth Lewy is assistant editor of Guardian Weekend.

Nosheen Iqbal: ‘Everyone else on the beach was 89% naked’

Nosheen Iqbal in Tuscany, aged 21.

I was a skittish 21-year-old in the mid noughties and I had, against my will, ended up on a Tuscan beach. It was the height of summer, but I was wearing thick black tights, thicker black skirt, black scarf and witchy pumps . Everyone else was dressed in 89% naked and the entire beach was rammed. I’d been sent on a work trip with four other journalists who were, as far as I was concerned, super-old (fortysomething) and, I hoped, probably willing to buy my stubborn refusal to strip as some cool youth thing. (They didn’t.) I made an attempt to style it out by looking casually moody, staring out to sea behind sunglasses, pretending not to notice my shoes sinking in the sand, legs looking like inky black stumps.

Why don’t you take off your tights?

No.

What about if…

No.

A couple of key things: the seaside was not on my itinerary and I hadn’t packed for it. I didn’t (and don’t) own swimwear or a bikini, and I didn’t (and don’t) know how to swim.

Being Muslim is barely an excuse to look as daft as I did; there are chic ways to be modest by the sea – childhood memories of Karachi’s Clifton beach were proof, where lawn cotton tunic and trousers were everyone’s friend. But being Muslim, plus an average level of body dysmorphia, was my “bikini body ready” get-out card. I knew there had to be more comfortable ways to be in public than permanently sucking my stomach in wearing what is, essentially, waterproof underwear. But 100-denier hosiery was definitely not the answer.

The general advice to give a shy 21-year-old should always be, “It’s not as bad as you think”, to allay their disproportionate embarrassment. Except, in this case, the cringe levels are fully warranted; I haven’t been to a hot, sunny beach since.

Nosheen Iqbal is a commissioning editor for G2.

Morwenna Ferrier: ‘I can’t remember why I decided to cut off my hair’

Morwenna Ferrier in Aldeburgh in her early 20s.

Other outfits have been more challenging. The mother-of-pearl bustier I wore to my graduation, say. Or, recently, the T-shirt printed with Valerie Solanas’s Scum manifesto I wore to meet a friend’s baby. But the outfit I am wearing here, worn on a walk along Aldeburgh beach in Suffolk, is the one I most regret.

It started a few months earlier when, in my early 20s, I decided to cut off my hair. I can’t remember why. I imagine I fancied a change and, in fairness, I liked it. But then, I looked like a boy in a dress. I reacted by phasing out dresses and instead wearing drainpipes, striped T-shirts and headscarves. None of this was good. In the photo, I’m wearing tight cropped trousers under the dress.

I had spent my late teens in dresses, grungy or flowery, with self-cut hems. It was a more innocent time, when I didn’t really care what I wore. But the haircut triggered an anxiety.

What is it I regret? Back then it was the haircut; now, it’s that I ever worried about looking like a boy. I clearly hadn’t been paying attention in those Judith Butler seminars; maybe I was still too attached to the binary. As my hair grew out, I started to care for the first time about how I looked. At 24, late in life, I became self-conscious.

Pam Lucas: ‘I looked like a turkey at Christmas’

Pam Lucas at a family party, aged 39.

As a single parent in the 80s, I was dirt poor. I didn’t have the opportunity to make fashion faux pas because I didn’t have any money. We shopped in jumble sales, and we had fun.

My family was invited to a party to celebrate my aunt and uncle’s golden wedding anniversary. I didn’t know them that well, but my mum wanted me to impress them by looking “modern”. In the 80s, that meant puffy sleeves and big shoulders. My mother came with me to buy the outfit from BHS , so I had to comply. I was 39 at the time.

It was a beautiful colour – between purple and lilac – but I didn’t like the synthetic fabric. It was watermarked all over and had a flared, taffeta skirt and a little jacket with a peplum. I looked like a turkey at Christmas, but it was such a fab party, I soon forgot how uncomfortable I felt.

In a way the outfit is a testament to my relationship with my mother. I was a grownup, with a child of my own, but she was still trying to keep hold of the mum bit of herself.

Tshepo Mokoena: ‘I settled on a vague hippy child look’

Tshepo Mokoena at 19.

It would be nice if we could start over. To spare me, and others my age, a fair bit of niggling shame, by wiping all early photos from our Facebook accounts. Anyone who set up a profile between 2004 and 2009 now lugs around the digital baggage of horrible pictures of misspent youth and terrible outfits.

Case in point: this delight of a photo. I was 19, killing time between the second and third years of uni in Brighton. In a few weeks, my housemate and I would set off on an impulsive charity volunteering trip to Kerala because – and I still cringe – we’d watched Wes Anderson’s The Darjeeling Limited.

Until my early 20s, my aesthetic consisted of not knowing when to edit. At 18, I would “layer” at least three beaded necklaces, two chunky bracelets, about 17 bangles and seven rings, for no good reason.

I attended secondary school in Harare, Zimbabwe, largely insulated from fashion, more concerned with my whizzing hormones than the latest velour tracksuit. I settled on a vague “hippy child” look at 15 and filled my wardrobe with earthy prints, flared denim and jewellery picked up in local markets. By 19, I looked like a substitute art teacher.

If you’re old enough to have only private, analogue photography from your youth, or young enough to have crafted a near-fictional version of yourself online, you’re spared the permanent reminder of your mistakes: 1,287 grim images owned by Mark Zuckerberg. I implore other twentysomethings to join me in calling for a digital purge. It’s time.

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