#powdered sugar records

[mildmayfoxe]

realized i had everything i needed to make a monte cristo my favorite diner sandwich of all time

[cera-writes]

Heyo saw you were taking requests for Gambit and I'm deathly starved for content of our favorite cajun could I request something really fluffy maybe Remy taking us to the french quarter and going to cafe du monde for beignets and taking touristy pics in front of the st Louis just light hearted fun 😊 anyway love your writing and hope you keep it up!

I love this idea! I literally went to New Orleans again over the weekend and it's fresh off my memory so this was a fun idea to write <3 Pairing: Remy LeBeau x Reader Prompt: Remy shows reader a fun, cute time in the French Quarter.

A walk Around the Quarter

The air hung thick with the scent of chicory coffee and powdered sugar, drawing Remy LeBeau and you deeper into the bustling heart of the French Quarter. The vibrant hues of Creole cottages and wrought iron balconies blurred past as Remy, ever the charming guide, navigated the labyrinthine streets with practiced ease. Each corner turned revealed a new treasure: a hidden courtyard overflowing with blooming jasmine, a street musician coaxing soulful melodies from a weathered saxophone, the tantalizing aroma of Cajun spices wafting from an open doorway.

"Welcome, cher," Remy announced with a flourish as you both emerged into the sun-drenched plaza fronting the iconic St. Louis Cathedral. "The crown jewel of New Orleans, and the perfect backdrop for our first touristy snapshot."

He winked and produced a camera seemingly from thin air, capturing your smiles against the majestic facade. Then, with a playful tug, he led you towards your ultimate destination.

"Prepare yourself," Remy warned with a grin. "For a taste of pure, unadulterated bliss."

Cafe du Monde, a bastion of beignet-fueled delight, awaited. The air thrummed with the lively chatter of patrons and the rhythmic clatter of trays laden with the irresistible pastries. Remy secured a coveted table, its marble top already dusted with a generous layer of powdered sugar. A street performer, drawn by your laughter, serenaded you both with a jaunty tune on his accordion, adding a touch of whimsy to the already enchanting atmosphere.

"Three beignets, s'il vous plait," Remy requested with a practiced charm that had the waitress returning in record time.

The beignets arrived, a trio of golden-brown pillows, their airy centers promising a symphony of flavor. Remy, a connoisseur of the finer things, demonstrated the proper technique: a delicate pinch, a generous dip in the accompanying mound of powdered sugar, and a bite that elicited a satisfied sigh.

"C'est magnifique, non?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with delight.

The afternoon unfolded in a leisurely haze of powdered sugar and laughter. You strolled through Jackson Square, admiring the vibrant works of local artists, and paused to listen to the soulful melodies of a street musician. Remy, ever the entertainer, even tried his hand at juggling, much to the amusement of onlookers. A horse-drawn carriage clopped past, its passengers waving merrily, and Remy couldn't resist doffing his hat with a flourish.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the Quarter, Remy and you found yourselves back at the St. Louis Cathedral. The plaza was bathed in a soft, ethereal light, creating a scene of undeniable romance. The street lamps flickered to life, casting dancing shadows on the ancient walls, and the distant sound of jazz music drifted on the breeze.

"One last photo, cher?" Remy asked, his voice a low murmur.

He captured the moment, your silhouettes framed against the cathedral's illuminated spires.

"But the night is still young," Remy said with a wink. "Care to hear some real New Orleans music?"

He led you down a dimly lit alley, the sound of a saxophone growing louder with each step. You emerged into a smoky jazz club, the air pulsating with the rhythm of the music. Remy took your hand and led you to the dance floor, where you twirled and swayed to the infectious beat. The music wrapped around you, a tapestry of notes and emotions, and you lost yourself in the moment, in Remy's eyes, in the magic of the night.

As the final notes faded, Remy pulled you close. "Merci," he whispered, his voice husky with emotion. "For sharin' dis perfect day with Remy."

The French Quarter, with its vibrant tapestry of sights, sounds, and flavors, had woven its magic. And at its heart, amidst the beignets, laughter, and the rhythm of the jazz, a connection had blossomed, leaving a trail of unforgettable memories in its wake.

[oh-koenig-my-koenig]

(cw: mentions of losing a close family member)

König doesn’t really know how to cook.

Well, anything other than the basics… Most of his meals consist of rice, meat and some kind of vegetable. Or like a carton of eggs. And of course, he can warm up meals and cook pasta and put pesto on it. But working in the military his whole life, he never really had the need to learn to prepare something to eat other than those basics, because most of the meals were provided and he’ll eat any- and everything. When he’s on leave, he cycles through his staples and also orders a lot of take-out, just to satisfy the calorie intake he needs at his size.

His grandma used to cook for him, ever since he was a little boy and then when he returned to Austria as an adult, she always made sure to prepare his favourite meals. He hasn’t been back ever since her funeral, he tells me while he gets some ingredients out of the fridge. Eggs, milk and butter. He misses her and her cooking, but that’s just how it is in life. Flour from the pantry. Mixing it all together, eyeballing the measurements, and adding a pinch of salt.

She taught him how to make Palatschinken. Thin pancake or crepe-like sheets of dough that he apparently made too much of. Rolled up, filled with jam and powdered sugar on top.

“Pala- what?”, I ask, wanting him to teach me how to say the word properly.

“Pa-la-tschin-ke.”, he repeats, sounding the syllables out, and I imitate them, until he tells me that I’ve got it.

I sit at the cooking island in his kitchen, on one of the chairs, and watch him pour the thin dough into the hot buttered pan. It bubbles and sizzles as he swirls it around, until the whole bottom is covered. Waiting for it to be cooked from one side. He lifts the edges with a spatula to make sure. Then he looks at me, raising his brows, like ‘Look at me, look what I can do’, lifting the pan of the hob, holding it in front of his body.

Oh, oh, that won’t- He flips it with a rehearsed flick of his wrist, the thin pancake rotating in the air for just a moment, then landing in the pan again.

I coo, clapping excitedly. He bows jokingly, with the pan still in his hand.

When it’s done, he puts the Palatschinke on a plate, spreads apricot jam on the thin dough, rolls it up and then sprinkles powdered sugar over it, setting the sweet roll in front of me. Gesturing me to eat.

I dig in, cutting it, and the fluffy dough almost melts on my tongue, the sweet jam spreading in my mouth as I chew. God damn it, that’s good. Simple, but very tasty. I finish the first one in record time and he puts the next Palatschinke on my plate. I fill it myself, devouring that one as well. He starts to make more, stacking them on a separate plate.

“You wanna try to make one as well?”, he asks me then.

I nod excitedly and get up from the stool. He hands me the pan and the ladle, putting some more butter onto the hot teflon, and I add the dough. When it’s cooked through, I try to do the flip just like he did. The little crepe flops up a bit and then folds in on itself. I burst into laughter and he joins in. Well, that didn’t go as planned.

“Don’t worry, that happened to me a lot of times.”, he says, scrapping the dough into the bin. “We’ll try again.”

So, the same spiel again. Until the Palatschinke is ready to be flipped. He’s standing behind me, we’re both gripping the handle of the pan and he’s looking over my shoulder, coaching me through it.

“Mit Gefühl.”, he tells me. “Carefully, but with determination.”

“I wanted to flip this thing, not get a lecture on how to enter some-“, I quip, but I get cut off when he playfully pinches my butt cheek.

It makes me jump up a bit and I bat his hand away. “König!”, I yelp, with pretend indignation, but he only grins down at me.

“Come on, you can do it.”, he says, nudging the pan in my hand.

“On three. One, two, three!”, I count down and then we flip it, together. The piece of dough rotates in the air and lands in the pan again.

“First authentically self-made Palatschinke.”, he says, with joking solemnity, as he drops it onto my plate. I do the rest of the steps and then eat it as well.

He makes Palatschinke after Palatschinke, telling me some more about his grandma and the dishes she used to cook, until all of the dough is gone. I listen to him and eat a whole bunch of them until I’m so full, I feel like I’m gonna burst. He finishes the rest of the thin pancakes, decimating a whole stack of them with lots of jam and sugar.

“The rest we can cut into small strips and put into soup.”, he explains.

“Into soup?!”, I question what he just said.

“Yes, Frittatensuppe. It’s really delicious.”, he says like it’s a normal thing.

I shake my head. Those Austrians and their weird dishes.

If you wanna try and make your own Palatschinken like metalhead!könig and reader, I got a recipe for you! Enjoy! a/n: this is the start of a little series I'm doing for mh!k x reader because I have so many scenes (some already finished a while ago like this one) that don't have a certain place in the plot and are just sitting in my word document, left to rot, so i'm gonna post them as their own random scenes that are still connected to them! some of it is gonna be sfw comfort fluff like this one, some is gonna be nsfw - stay tuned <3 Wanna get to know them better? Find more chapters in the Masterlist

[lelalutka]

STUFF THAT ACTUALLY HELPED ME (Dont report just block plz)

also! Sorry if some of the stuff i say is a bit confusing, its like 1:52 am and im super tired but i thought i’d make this anyway lol. Okay! no dilly dallying lets get straight into this.

__________________________________________________

1) Make your own motovation audio

Basically, what i did was i went to my notes app and typed away literally every harsh motivation that ive ever heard that REALLY motivates me. They could be quotes that help u r3strict or they could be tips that u have heard on here.

I typed out literally all the quotes and all the tips that motivate me to r3strict, ALL into ONE note. Next, i copy pasted all that i typed into a text to speech and screen recorded the audio so i could listen to it whenever i feel unmotivated to workout or even while i work out.

2) Sparkling water

Okay, WE ALL KNOW that water should be our #1 drink throughout our WL journey but obviously it can get a little boring and after while it just doesnt keep u full for that long.. which is why i recommend 0 sugar sparkling waters! Theres so many flavours like grape, lychee, apple, raspberry, You name it!

Sparkling waters keep u FULLLL!!!! And i mean it. Not only do they taste good but u literally wont even think about food after drinking a can!

3) fruits

Fruits! Such a blessing arent they? Personally my favourite has been mandarins! You know why? Firstly, they’re only 47-50 c4lor1es!! And boy, do they keep u FULL! Pair a mandarin and a can of sparkling water and you’ll be full for hours! I also really love watermelon too! Its super high volume and sweet.. 1 slice could keep me full for a long time!

4) seasonings

Now, i understand that when trying to eat healthier foods like cucumbers or salads can be kinda boring.. which is why i loveeeeee seasonings!!! They can make something plain taste 10x better for such little c4lor1es!

My favourite go-to’s have to be mint, paprika, curry powder, beef flavouring and garlic powder :D

__________________________________________________

Okay Its getting late now and i really should be in bed lol! I Hope some of these tips help those whoever are struggling! If u have any tips of your own feel free to comment them :) goodnightttttt <3

[uhitsum]

50 follower celebration

to celebrate 50 followers, i wanted to record a little post stuffing belly appreciation! i'm thankful for all the support i've gotten, it helps me to feel more sure in my body every day!

additionally, i've decided to share my favorite recipe for preparing these feasts. I've eaten at least one each week for the past year and a half, so i'm confident in saying they make up for at least 20 pounds on my frame.

Chubby Mug Cake: 960cal 1/2 cup Flour (225 cal) 1/4 cup Sugar (190 cal) 1/4 cup Cocoa Powder (50 cal) 1 tsp Baking Soda 5/8 cup Milk (75 cal) 1/4 cup Peanut Butter (400 cal)

Mix dry ingredients in a medium mixing bowl. Microwave Peanut Butter for 30 seconds to soften. Stir in Peanut Butter and Milk. Move to a fairly large microwave safe bowl (it's actually a bit bigger than most large mugs, but i have a mug bowl i use, hence the name). Microwave for 3 minutes, and let cool before feasting.

Easy additions:

Top with ice cream (80-300 cal) This recipe may turn out somewhat dry if overcooked, so the melting of the ice cream makes it a heavenly experience to easily scarf down.

Lava cake (100-300 cal) Putting chocolate chips or nutella in the middle of the cake before cooking gives it a super rich note. if you want it to taste fattening as hell, this is it. i've only done this sparingly (tonight included!), but it's incredibly satisfying.

Serve with milk (100-200 cal) No better drink to accompany it - unless, of course, you've got a shake on hand 😉

Increase Peanut Butter (100-400 cal) While it's somewhat bad for the consistency of the cake, i've experimented with as much as 1/2 cup of Peanut Butter to really help pad the waist. It's manageable, but the cake tastes a bit worse, and i can feel it the next morning.

[soullumii]

carnival lights | joel miller x f!reader

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you take joel to the yearly summer carnival.

warnings/tags: pure fluff, little bit of sexual humor, fake gun use! (water guns), carnival fun, no outbreak!joel, soft!joel, modern au, food, implied age gap (reader is in her 20s, joel is in his 40s), pet names (peach, darlin', sweetheart, baby), established relationship. (can be read as part of the stranded universe!), NO USE OF Y/N

word count: 3.5k

a/n: something cute while i work on stranded part 2. there's no plot, just vibes

taglist: @hecatombix @thatmemechick @sexygaypalpatine

“I can’t believe you dragged me out to this mess,” Joel grumbles. 

Warm summer air settles over the both of you as screams from excited kids and terrified people on rollercoasters echo around you in the night. Joel’s scowl is illuminated by flashing lights from various pop-up mirror mazes, haphazardly put together ferris wheels, and scandalously painted funhouses.

Seriously, though, why does the children’s funhouse have a mural of a Parisian can-can dancer plastered on the front of it, her fish-netted vagina visible from quite literally any angle within this carnival?

It’s so incredibly ridiculous, and you absolutely love it. You just love carnivals—always have. 

Even if they’re probably a safety hazard, even if the creepy clowns wandering about scared you a lot as a kid, and even if the sweet aroma of funnel cakes and fried Oreos and cotton candy mixes with the skunky smell of cheap weed. It brings back memories. And yeah, it might give you a headache after a few minutes, but it’s everything you adore, even if you’re in your late twenties now. 

“It’s fun, Joel. Have you ever heard of fun?” You tease, dragging him along the dirt path littered with cigarette butts and mystery liquids. You get a whiff of hot dog.

Joel must get it too, because his nose scrunches and he steps aside a dubious pile of something inscrutable. “My definition of fun ain’t exactly this.”

“Look! That looks fun!” You point excitedly toward a ride called “The Zipper” rising high in the sky, its metal capsules filled with adrenaline junkies swinging back and forth as the entire ride spins on an axis.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel swears under his breath.

“What? Don’t you want to ride it?” 

When you glance over at him, he’s looking particularly green, though you can’t exactly tell if that’s from the spinning cups next to you flashing green and white or if he’s truly feeling unwell.

“Are you okay?” You ask, sincerity coating your words as you turn to him. 

“I’m fine,” he shakes his head. “I just—you should’ve taken Ellie and Sarah with you. I’m not any fun at these kinds of things.”

“Joel…” you say, a teasing smile growing as your hand lands on his arm. “Are you scared?” 

He scowls, but hesitates in his answer, gaze darting away from you. “No.”

Liar. “Joel, it's okay if you’re scared,” you say. “We don’t have to ride any rides. I wanted to come with you just to spend time with you.”

His gaze softens and he sighs. “I know, peach. I wanna spend time with you, too. And for the record, I’m not scared, I’m just concerned about… my back.”

“Riiight,” you smirk. “Let’s go find something to do that won’t hurt your back then.”

You find a funnel cake stand charging $15 per cake. Joel grumbles about how ridiculous, and frankly, illegal it is that they’re charging so much for what is basically a scribble of fried dough as he pulls out his wallet.

“It's about the culture of it all, Joel,” you declare as you take a bite of doughy and powdered sugar goodness. “It’s just what carnival goers do. It’s only once a year, they can make the sacrifice.” You tear off a piece of it and give it to him. 

“I guess seein’ Sarah smile after eatin’ fried oreos was worth it," he relents as he takes the cake and plops it into his mouth, humming gratefully and yes! you’re starting to wear him down! 

“Exactly.”

After you both finish your funnel cake among a screaming swath of kids, you drag him toward the farm animals. This, he has to like. 

You enter into the tent, Joel’s hand tucked in yours, and the smell of manure and dirt immediately choke the both of you, the scent trapped in by the heat and the plastic material of the tarp. Joel somehow seems to look even worse than he did when you mentioned the Zipper.

“These poor animals,” he whispers, eyes wide as he takes in the fences sectioning off llamas and sheep and highland cattle. “They should be out wanderin’ in a field.”

“They do, Joel,” you insist, squeezing his hand. “It’s just for tonight. Come on, let’s go pet one.”

After a snot-nosed child stumbles away from the sheep pen, Joel makes his way over. He frowns down at them, reaching a hand in through the fence to pet them. The sheep inch forward, pressing their wet noses into his palm, and he strokes their soft wool lovingly. Your heart flutters at the sight.

And then you hear him whispering to them: “I’ll get you out of here.”

Before Joel can do something drastic, like wrench open the fence on pure strength alone (which you know he is absolutely capable of), you drag him out of the tent. Your spirits are extinguished, the night feeling more and more like a failure. You have to get him to have fun, somehow.

“Those poor animals,” he says again, shakes his head as you draw him toward the game booths.

“They’ll be okay, Joel,” you reassure gently, rubbing his shoulder blades. 

He just shakes his head again, and your heart fractures. You plaster on a smile and set him in front of a booth with two plastic water guns tethered to a ledge, at the far end of the booth are targets bobbing up and down, moving along a track.

“Let’s play this!” You say, handing the teenage booth manager a dollar bill. He chews his gum apathetically, and pulls the lever to start up the game. 

This piques Joel’s interest and he watches you grab the pistol-shaped water gun, aiming it at a target, your eye winking as you train your gaze on a target. 

“No, no, I can’t let you shoot like that,” he says, grabbing the pistol. He maneuvers your hands, “Left squeezes on the right, darlin’.” He then adjusts your arms and tries to grab the pistol from you, but it's sturdy in your new grasp, not going anywhere.

“There,” he says, proud, and grabs the other gun, pointing it at the first target. “Good luck, peach. You're gonna need it.”

“We’ll see about that,” you tease. You have no idea what you’re getting into.

“Start,” the booth manager monotonously drawls.

Before you can even pull the trigger, three of Joel’s targets are down, and he is cackling as he obliterates the others on his side. Your jaw drops, eyes widening.

Because, what the hell?

You scramble to catch up, pressing the trigger rapidly at your own targets, but only a few hits land. By the time the bored teenager calls ‘game’, Joel’s got his arms over his chest, watching you with a satisfied smile as you try in vain to shoot the last three targets on your side.

You turn to him in shock, but your bones feel light, your pulse beating rapidly because at least he’s finally having fun. And, admittedly, his skill is attractive.

“You should see your face right now,” he laughs.

“You won this,” the teenager drones, holding out a big fluffy teddy bear, half the size of Joel. 

“I’m keepin’ this,” Joel says, grabbing the bear and holding it close. He looks ridiculous, holding that giant teddy bear in his corded arms, peppered locks falling over his forehead. Ridiculously handsome. Ridiculously cute. You've got to keep this going.

“What? Seriously? You’re not going to give your girlfriend the bear you won?” You pout. He just smiles wider. 

“Darlin’, you’ve gotta earn this. Your shootin’ was pathetic.” He grabs another dollar from his wallet and hands it to the red-headed teen. “Another one, kid.”

Instead of grabbing his own pistol when the game starts up again, Joel comes in close around your back, warm chest pressing against your shoulder blades as his hands skim down your arms. He lays a chaste kiss on the side of your throat and your heart beats rapidly like a bird’s, warmth settling within you, a flush dusting your cheeks at his proximity. 

His broad palms land on yours, and he adjusts your hold again like he did last time. “This was good. Your aim, on the other hand…”

“I’ve never shot a fucking gun before, Joel,” you defend.

“This is a water gun, peach.” You grumble as he drags your arms up, sets them in a position that is honestly not very comfortable, but you can see how it might be easier for aiming. 

“Aim that ‘lil notch at the top of the gun in the middle of your target.” You follow his instruction dutifully. “Good, now shoot.”

It’s all in good fun, the gun light and cheap in your hand, but you treat it as if you truly are about to shoot a real gun, if only because your competitive nature likes to take over. You take a deep breath and let it out, then pull the trigger. The target goes down swiftly.

Joel pulls back, grinning down at you. “Nice job, peach.”

You preen at his praise.

“Alright, now hit the next one.” 

You do just that. He holds his hand up for a high five and you slam your palm onto his, laughing giddily. "I'm so fucking good at this!"

He hisses, shaking his stinging hand out, “Why do you always high five so hard?”

“The game’s almost done,” the teenager warns.

You turn and deflate at the sight of ten targets still standing, confidence leaving your body in one fell swoop. You have about twenty seconds to shoot the last targets, and you wilt, knowing that’s absolutely not going to happen. You gaze sadly at the stuffed whale hanging from the awning. 

Joel, noticing your disappointment, grabs his own pistol and fires off at his targets, each painted bullseye flinging back as the water hits it, the targets dropping one by one in quick succession. Even the moving ones he finds easily, spraying them with firm focus, eyebrows furrowed over his hard eyes. 

He finishes with five seconds to spare, and a smirk on his lips. He makes a show to pretend to blow smoke away from the water gun’s barrel, and you can't help but laugh. You never see him this goofy, and it makes your body tingle with happiness.

The booth manager rolls his eyes and gets the whale down, handing it to Joel. You give him the biggest puppy eyes you can manage, lips puckered in a pout, and you can see the moment it hits him right in the heart, his smile growing soft, the way he looks away from you, turning to try and hide it. But he can’t, and you tremble at the sight feeling so full, so warm. 

“Come on, Joel. I’m never going to be as good as you–which by the way, where the fuck did you learn to do that?” You say, grabbing the tail of the whale and tugging. 

"Growin' up on a farm, darlin'. Tommy was always wantin' to shoot the ducks."

"Ah, so you're a master at duck hunting, huh?"

He shrugs. "You could say that."

He tugs the whale away from your grasp, gesturing to the booth. "Alright, one more game. Come on baby, you can do it."

You groan, and he hands another dollar over. The kid looks even more bored. Maybe even annoyed at this point. You don't blame him. You grab the pistol, and get to shooting, not without spraying some water at Joel first. He doesn’t even flinch.

Five targets later (you never could get the full ten), you're whooping and hollering as the kid hands you a fluffy monkey plushie.

"There we go!" Joel praises. “Nice goin’ peach!”

You do a little happy dance, not caring if you look ridiculous, and Joel tucks you into his side, throwing another dollar bill at the apathetic teen.

“For your patience,” he says. You giggle loudly into your palm.

“I don’t get paid enough to be here,” the kid mumbles as Joel tugs you away and back through the carnival.

You look up at him, taking in his carefree expression, the content smile on his face, and the way the lights flash off his eyes, making them sparkle. His strong arm is wrapped around your waist, your cheek pressed into his shoulder.

“Finally having fun?”

He looks down at you, eyebrow quirking. “What’d’ya mean? I’ve been havin’ fun this whole time.”

You stop, pulling back to really look at him, blinking in disbelief. “What? But you’ve seemed so… upset. The rollercoasters, the funnel cake...the animals."

Joel’s smile slips, and a clear sincerity takes hold in his eyes. “Darlin’ none of that matters to me. Just bein’ with you is enough to make anythin’ fun.”

“Oh,” is all you can say, nerves thrumming, mind racing.

“I’m sorry I made you feel otherwise, I'm not very good with emotions," he says, threading his fingers with yours, and your heart stutters. You knew that. He’s always been a closed book, and even if he does decide to be more open, it can be hard to truly decipher how he feels. Though he’s always quick to assure you that you mean everything to him.

“I’ll ride a damn rollercoaster with you anytime if you really want me to.”

This is why you love him so damn much.

You beam, though it turns teasing, “Thanks, Joel, but I don’t want to hurt you.” You poke his lower back.

Joel chuckles. “My back is fine. I’m just scared.”

“Oh really? Finally admitting it, Miller?“

"You know I struggle with admitting my flaws, darlin'."

"Right, because you hardly have any."

"Exactly."

"Well, anyway, I have an idea."

"Do ya now?”

You drag him toward the giant ferris wheel stretching high into the sky, the neon lights climbing its spokes flashing excitedly, drawing the carnival goers in.

You settle in a seat with Joel next to you, though because of the long line, you're forced to be seated with another couple across the way. An older couple, with matching t-shirts and candy necklaces.

"Hey there!" The woman chirps. "What a lovely night, ain't it?"

Joel nods awkwardly, "Sure is."

"It's beautiful," you add.

It truly is, a gentle breeze stirs the warm air, driving away mosquitos and the Texan humidity. The navy sky is clear, only a few fluffy clouds sprinkled about. You’d spend the entire night out here if you could.

"I'm Sharon, my husband Burt and I have been comin' to this carnival for the past fifty years," she says, gesturing to the man in overalls beside her.

"That's amazing," you say honestly. "I’d like to have a tradition like that, too.”

You tell her your and Joel’s names, ignoring the latter’s pleading glance at you by smiling at Sharon and Burt and complimenting their matching shirts.

Burt's says: Nothing Sense We're and hers says: Makes When Apart.

You despise the shirts deeply, but you might as well be friendly to the people you'll be stuck with for the next fifteen minutes.

"Thanks darlin'! Are you two a couple?"

You take Joel's hand, "Yep! Finally reeled this slippery fish in."

"Jesus Christ," Joel grumbles under his breath. You try not to laugh.

"Older men, so evasive, am I right?" Sharon whispers, a hand coming up to shield her mouth from her husband, as if he can't hear her in this tiny space.

"I hear you, sister.”

Joel rubs his thumb and forefinger against his temple.

"Well, enjoy your ride," she beams. "Just beware, my hubby gets gassy when we get halfway up."

You choke on a shocked laugh, your palm slapping over your lips. You lean into Joel, eyes wide, who looks green once again.

"Oh my god," you hiss to him.

"Now look what you've done. We're 'bout to get chloroformed by farts."

You can’t hide your laugh this time, “Joel!"

The ferris wheel jerks, and Joel's hand tightens around yours as it begins to ascend. You notice the tick in his jaw, the way his gaze pointedly darts from the spokes of the wheel to the pole in the center of the seat and back.

"Are you scared of ferris wheels too?" You ask.

"No," he hisses. "I'm scared of state carnival ferris wheels. They set this piece of shit up in three days. How can you even trust it?"

"I just like to think about possible ways I'd survive it."

"Yeah, like what? Grabbing onto the pole and just hanging there 'til they get ya?"

"Exactly, see, it'll be fine."

"That's if the whole thing doesn't detach."

"I think it's more likely we'll die from suffocating by old man farts than this thing detaching."

That gets a laugh out of Joel, and his gaze finally finds the land stretching out beneath you as the ferris wheel rises. The moon hangs high above the clouds, bright and full, and stars dot the dark sky like jewels sewn on a blanket. The breeze ruffles his hair, and you wish to run your hands through it.

"This is nice," he says. "I'm glad I came out here with you."

"You didn't have much of a choice, but I'm glad you're enjoying it."

You hear the man across from you pass gas, and you hide a grimace.

Joel leans in to whisper in your ear, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin making you shiver. "This would be pretty romantic if it weren't for Mr. and Mrs. Clause over there."

"Watch it, you'll be approaching that age soon."

"I've got at least twenty years, peach. Maybe you'll be sick of me by then."

"Oh no," you shake your head, looking earnestly into his eyes. "I'll gratefully smell your farts 'til the end, Joel."

"You're messed up," he grimaces.

You just smile at him, and he grins back, his arm slung over the back of the seat, his thumb massaging your neck, and you melt into him, content to watch the world shrink as you near the top.

Eventually the ferris wheel comes to a stop at the top, and you gaze out across the dark world, head resting on Joel's shoulder. He pulls you in close.

"It's time for the kiss!" Sharon exclaims, grabbing Burt's fraying overalls and tugging him in to plant a kiss right on his lips. He melts right into her, and in mere seconds, you and Joel are witness to a geriatric couple making out.

"Ain't this somethin'," Joel says.

"Oh. My. God."

Sharon pulls back after a good thirty seconds, and turns to you and Joel. "Alright! Your turn!"

"Oh no, that's okay," you say, waving your hand. Joel is private in his affections, though his little show at the target booth earlier might say otherwise. Generally, he prefers keeping you to himself.

But tonight, he's full of surprises.

"C'mon, peach. Let's do it. Let’s give these kind folks a show, like they did for us."

"Yes! He gets it!" Sharon bounces excitedly. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

You've been wanting to kiss him all night, so you're really not against it. Though, it's still weird, and you give Joel a pained look.

"I'll give you the whale for this," he promises.

"And the bear," you argue.

"Fine. And the bear."

You grin, and then his hand is at the back of your neck, pulling you in, his nose brushing your cheek as he slots your lips together. He tastes like funnel cake and cotton candy and you honestly don't want this night to end.

Your eyes flutter shut as he adjusts you to deepen the kiss, his tongue swiping across your bottom lip. Your hands plant on his chest, nails digging into the fabric stretching over his firm pecs.

"Woo! Yeah! Kiss her hard! Kiss her really good.”

Your lip is still caught between his teeth when Joel slowly pulls away, eyes trained angrily on Sharon and Burt. He clears his throat as leans back in his seat, and you avoid eye contact with the very strange couple across from you. Joel's hand is hot on your exposed thigh, and now you really wish you weren't fifty feet in the air stuck with some very questionable folks.

Finally, five minutes later you touch the ground again.

"Y'all have fun now!" Sharon squeaks and steers Burt toward the cowboy-themed carousel.

"Have a good night you two," Joel says, faintly as they beeline away from you, almost like you were the weird ones.

He hands you the whale but holds the bear for you as you make your way back to Joel's pickup.

"Well, that was something," you say.

"I don't think I'll get that image out of my head. Or the smell," Joel's nose scrunches.

You stop, turning toward him. "I'm sorry about this. I thought it would be fun. We'd play games and share a romantic kiss on the ferris wheel and feed the animals-"

The words fade as Joel's palm settles on your cheek, his thumb running across your bottom lip, his other hand landing on your waist. "Darlin', we did all of that."

"Yeah, but it all sucked. I can't shoot for shit. And you don't like the animals being all cooped up, and then Sharon and Burt practically eating each other in front of us, then getting turned on by our kissing? You don't think I saw Burt's hard-on?"

His eyes widen in disgusted shock. "His what?"

Your eyes well up. "I’m sorry, Joel."

He shakes his head, pulling you into his chest. "Peach, I had a great time. I love doing whatever you love. I love you, okay? So next year, you can drag me out here again and we can be Sharon and Burt's spank bank material and I'll enjoy it just as much as I did today."

Your laugh is watery against his chest, and he tilts your chin up to softly press his lips against yours again, this time shielded from the hungry gaze of strange old people. He thumbs away your tears.

"By the way," he whispers against your lips. "I liked watchin' you fail at shootin'. It's cute."

You glare half-heartedly at him, pushing him off of you and rounding to the passenger side of the truck. "I always knew you were into humiliation."

"Maybe we should try it, just to know for sure," he smirks, leaning against the door frame, towering over you.

You look him up and down, eyeing the muscles of his forearms and the way his t-shirt stretches across his broad chest. Your voice comes out lower than you expect it to.

“Get in the damn truck, Miller."

"Yes ma'am."

[rustedhearts]

⭐️ roller girl’s table of contents ⭐️

. • ☆ . ° .• °. *₊ ° . ☆ . • ☆ . ° .• °. *₊ ° . ☆ . • ☆ . ° .• . • ☆ . ° .• °.

✶ about roller girl

✶ the library

✶ blurbs

✶ the record store

✶ moodboards

✶ tis autumn (seasonal fics here!)

. • ☆ . ° .• °. *₊ ° . ☆ . • ☆ . ° .• °. *₊ ° . ☆ . • ☆ . ° .• . • ☆ . ° .• °.

roller girl’s pie stand!

an autumn/halloween-themed blurb commission

. • ☆ . ° .• °. *₊ ° . ☆ . • ☆ . ° .• °. *₊ ° . ☆ . • ☆ . ° .• . • ☆ . ° .• °.

ko-fi!

i am currently unemployed and have been searching for work for months. donations, remote job links, and even good vibes in my asks are always welcome ⭐️

✶ this blog smells like: this afternoon's cigarette smoke, nail polish, cinnamon sugar cookies, and avon powder perfume. ✶

[comingfromastatechampionasshole]

Wilt-resist your whipped cream! (A cheat, by Doc)

Okay, the phrase "by Doc" is doing a lot of heavy lifting here--I actually learned this tip from a gal I was competing with years ago in state fair (she beat my ass) and I'm sure other aunts and grandmas know it. But, whomst else on tumblr will deliver it to your eyeballs?

Because you know the trouble with whipped cream and whipped cream frostings is they tend to wilt over time, especially if they have to deal with absolutely any level of heat. A simple room temperature can make your pie or cake look weepy and sad. Your bowl of fresh whipped cream now looks worse than the fuckin' cool whip. Tragedy.

Now, I assume you, erudite and exceptional readers of this blog, are already using powdered sugar/icing sugar instead of standard sugar to make your whipped cream, not only because of greater stability but because it functionally removes the possibility of graininess. This is a "I want to make this whipped cream the night before" tip. Other tips like milk powder, I find, just don't have the same longevity as what's below:

Professionals use gelatin or agar-agar, which I don't like for two reasons: 1) Gelatin is not vegetarian and in the US is often made from pork, so fuck your Jewish or Muslim guests and 2) you have to bloom the gelatin or agar-agar, and it can be tricky to work with, and if you aren't the 'working with high-level mousses and creams often" type, it may be a waste of space in your kitchen.

But gee whiz, did you know there's a very cheap and intensely easy solution for busy housewives to keep her man loving her whipped cream, and by extension, her? Tell her, Don!

Why little lady, it's Jell-O (tm) brand instant pudding mix! Don't tell the ladies at the church bake-off...we won't.

This is the easiest possible way to get nice, stiff whipped cream that holds up for, I think my record is three days. It can also tolerate sitting in a warm room much much better than whipped cream really ought to be able to.

"But Doc, isn't Jell-O, uh, gelatin?"

Jell-O itself is, but Jell-O pudding is actually kosher. I assume other brands are as well, but I don't know this for a fact--so make sure to check the label if you're using a different brand. What's doing the work here is 'modified food starch' which is a stronger version of cornstarch, which I find, added to whipped cream, to require too much to be added, and the texture gets odd.

This is cheap! Your grocery store may vary, but this small box was 99 cents.

This is easy! All you do is add about 1 tablespoon of pudding mix per one cup of heavy/whipping/double cream* and then whip as usual.

It does lightly flavor the whipped cream, which I've never found to be a problem--I use regular vanilla mostly, but french vanilla is nice for banana cream pie, I used coconut cream for the pie I just entered WHICH WON BEST IN SHOW I MIGHT ADD. Chocolate is great for chocolate whipped cream. You're smart people, you got this. The only ones I don't recommend are tapioca (pearls) and Oreo (having about three bits of oreo in the whipped cream looks dirty rather than intentional.)

Go forth, and set your whipped cream on the sideboard with confidence!

*I'm aware these all actually contain different levels of fat, but let's get real here, they are often used interchangeably and only the craziest among us is going to seriously get into "What cream should you be whipping?" discourse.

[mimisempai]

Gingerbread-flavored kisses

Summary

Following yet another squabble between Crowley and Nina, the angel and demon find themselves forced to bake Christmas cookies in Maggie's kitchen. And all without magic.

Having lived for millennia doesn't stop you from being cooking disasters.

Notes

I really needed that dose of fluff and humor, so I hope you enjoy it too.

INEFFABLE ADVENT CALENDER

On Ao3

Rating G -  1515 words

"How many eggs did you say?" asked Aziraphale as he opened a carton of eggs.

"Three, I think," Crowley replied, looking up from the bowl of sugar and butter he'd been trying to "cream" - not knowing what that word meant - with moderate success. In the end, all he had was a grainy beige dough that didn't look "creamy" at all. He looked at the recipe at the line that mentioned eggs and grimaced, "Oops.... Angel, it was only two eggs."

"Crowleyyyy! You got to be kidding me!"

Aziraphale sighed dramatically, and Crowley turned to see him pressing his lips together, holding half an eggshell in each hand. Two more shells lay on the counter beside him. 

"Can't you... remove one?"

"Maybe I can." 

Aziraphale tried in vain to remove the slippery and now useless egg from the bowl, but only managed to break one of the yolks. He put down the bowl and the spoon he had used to fish the egg out and looked at Crowley, who had been watching him the whole time. 

The angel shook his head and said, "No, it's not working."

"It doesn't matter," Crowley said in a tone he tried to make comforting before adding, "You'll just have to do it again."

Aziraphale glared at him and grabbed two eggs as the demon returned to his creamy concoction that wasn't.

Hearing the angel grumble, the demon commented, "If you hadn't been so intent on helping Maggie make Christmas cookies for the record store, we wouldn't be in this mess."

Aziraphale replied, "I could have miraculously done all this without her knowing if you hadn't bragged about it to Nina, who dared us to do it without magic. Anyway, there's no point in knowing whose fault it is. We're going to make these cookies and we're going to make them right."

"Yeah..." Crowley sighed, looking doubtfully at his dough.

Aziraphale paused to sniff a bottle of vanilla extract before adding a spoonful to his two eggs and whisking vigorously.

After a few strokes, he stopped and said to the demon, "Come help me, my dear, hold the electric mixer while I add the ingredients."

Crowley joined him, grabbed the mixer, and as Aziraphale slowly poured the eggs and vanilla into the bowl, he spun the mixer, first at a slow speed, then faster as he grew impatient. He paused from time to time to scrape the sides of the bowl with his spatula and to cast a few glances at Aziraphale, who looked downright homely with an apron around his waist, which Crowley liked a lot but wouldn't say out loud. 

"What's got you smiling like that?" 

"Nothing," Crowley said with a shrug, stirring the dough one last time before putting the spatula down. "Just you being here next to me."

"Sap." Aziraphale said in mockery, but Crowley could tell by the sudden blush in his cheeks that he'd appreciated it. 

"Now what?" Crowley glanced back at the recipe sheet. "The dry ingredients. Do you want to measure the flour or the spices?"

Instead of answering, Aziraphale took the cinnamon jar and a measuring spoon and waited for Crowley to open the flour bag. Six cups of flour and several tablespoons of various spices later, they realized they needed a larger bowl. 

When all the ingredients were transferred to the bowl without waiting, Crowley turned on the mixer.

Nothing in the kitchen was spared, as flour flew everywhere, even inside closed drawers and cabinets. And of course, Aziraphale and Crowley, who were closest to the bowl, took the brunt of it. 

Crowley turned to Aziraphale after a moment and was slightly horrified to see his face, shirt, and hair covered in white powder. Aziraphale looked just as shocked. But before Crowley could speak, with an apology on the tip of his tongue, the angel threw back his head and laughed, shaking the flour off his shoulders and onto the floor. Faced with the angel's utter hilarity, the demon couldn't hold back his laughter either.

"I'm sorry, Angel," he said, catching his breath between laughs. "I didn't mean to."

"I hope not," Aziraphale replied, arching an eyebrow even whiter than natural.

He chuckled and looked at the flour-covered demon before saying, a gleam of mischief in his eyes, "So you really do look like me, but..." he added, grabbing a towel, "I prefer my dark demon."

He began wiping Crowley's chin.

The demon closed his eyes, letting Aziraphale tilt his face back and forth as he brushed the flour from his cheeks and forehead before rubbing the cloth over his own face. His shoulders still trembled with silent laughter as he ran his hand through his hair, brushing out as much flour as he could. 

Crowley stepped forward to help, running his fingers through the angel's usually fluffy hair, now coarse with flour, until it returned to its natural texture.

Once they and Maggie's kitchen were clean enough to proceed, they mixed the rest of the flour with the wet ingredients by hand until the dough had the texture called for in the recipe.

Crowley formed the dough into two balls, wrapped them, and gave them to Aziraphale, who put them in the refrigerator to chill for a few hours. Just like Maggie's recipe said.

"So, what do we do until the dought is ready?" asked Aziraphale, looking at the recipe. 

Crowley turned to him, then moved closer, removing a remnant of flour from the angel's cheek with his thumb, then sliding his hand along his jaw to his chin, which he cupped, he said softly, "I'm sure we can find a pleasant way to pass the time."

Aziraphale replied, a hint of defiance in his voice, "Show me, my dear."

Which the demon hastened to do, pressing his lips to the angel's.

A few kisses and hugs later, the dough was cool enough to work with, and they each took a half, elbowing and throwing flour at each other as they worked side by side. By the time they had rolled out the dough as thin as the recipe called for, they had covered a good portion of the counter.

"How many cookies does this make, anyway?" 

Crowley looked at the recipe, but it didn't say, so he shrugged and answered, "I guess it depends on the size of the cookies you're making."

And then there was nothing to do but cut the cookies and place them on baking sheets. Crowley made a batch of gingerbread cookies, along with some stars, hearts, and candy canes. They placed their cookies on baking sheets and popped them into the hot oven. 

Ten minutes later, the cookies were ready to be placed on cooling racks. Aziraphale, however, couldn't resist tasting one while it was still warm and bit off its head. Crowley leaned over his shoulder, so the angel broke off a piece and put it in the demon's mouth. They chewed thoughtfully for a moment.  

"Hmm. I'm not sure I'm the biggest fan of gingerbread, to be honest," Crowley said. Aziraphale took the cookie from his hands and continued eating; apparently, the angel was a fan.  

They spent another two hours decorating the cookies with icing and other decorations until Crowley put a final smile and button on one of the gingerbread figures. 

Aziraphale looked over the demon's shoulder.

"You missed a spot," he said, and Crowley looked at him, then at the cookie.  

"Really? 

"Mhmm." Crowley felt Aziraphale's breath on his neck as he replied, looking confused, "I... don't see anything. Where?"

"You have icing on your right..." Aziraphale leaned even closer, but Crowley couldn't see where he was pointing "-here." And suddenly there was a warm mouth on his cheek. 

"And there's some here." Aziraphale put his mouth on the demon's jaw and wrapped his arms around his waist. "And there's more here," before kissing the back of his neck.

Crowley turned to face him and brought his own arms up to Aziraphale's shoulders. He raised an eyebrow at the angel and replied challengingly, "I'm sure there was no icing here." 

"Oh, but there is," Aziraphale said very seriously. "And there's more here." He kissed Crowley just behind his ear, Crowley's breath quickened and he instinctively pulled Aziraphale closer. "And you even have some..." Aziraphale brought his lips close to the demon's and continued, "Here," before giving him a tender, gingerbread-flavored kiss.

"Say, you two, I didn't know that was part of the Christmas cookie recipe."

Angel and the demon turned, cheek to cheek, as they watched Nina enter the kitchen.

Then Crowley smiled proudly and, separating himself from the angel, turned to pick up one of the trays of cookies before turning to Nina and saying, "Whatever the ingredients, we held up our end of the bargain. Without magic."

He then placed the tray in the hands of an amused Nina, grabbed the angel's hand and pulled him behind him, "Come on angel, let's go home."

Aziraphale let himself be pulled along without protest, apparently just as eager to get home to continue what they'd started.

Another gingerbread-flavored kiss.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Growing Love series : (After season 2) 

Part 1 Story 1-99

Part 2 Story 100-?

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)

[scoops-aboy86]

I work in a behavioral therapy adjacent role, and I recently came across a cool information sheet about food sensory input that, I mean, because I think about Steddie at all times, immediately made me think of @hotluncheddie's autistic Steve stuff. Which I need to read more of! But, in the meantime, I thought this was cool.

It also maybe kind of explains my occasional intense need for cronchy and/or sour foods.

The following a checklist of foods organized into different textures, flavors, and consistencies. You can use this list to become “detectives” to help determine what works best to calm or alert your child (depending on the needs at the time). This can help bring your youth move to the desired energy level (calm or alert). This can provide sensory input throughout the day in order to adjust their arousal level to meet the demands of the situation.

-

Chewy Foods- CALM Crunchy Foods- ALERT Sucking (candy or through a straw)- FOCUS

-

Sucking Foods FOCUS

Ice

Hard candy

Candy sour balls

Suckers

Juice popsicles

Frozen grapes

Orange wedges

Lemon wedges

Chewy Foods CALM

Cheese

Fruit leather

Fruit roll ups

Dried fruit

Raisins

Chewy granola bar

Tootsie pops

Gum

Bagels

Gummy bears/worms

Licorice

Skittles

Crunchy Foods ALERT

Crackers

Popcorn

Goldfish

Crunchy cereal

Ginger snaps

Carrots

Celery

Other raw veggies

Apples, pears, etc.

-

Sweet Foods- CALMING Salty Foods- ALERTING Sour Foods- VERY ALERTING Bitter/Spicy Foods- EXTREMELY ALERTING

-

🍬 Sweet CALMING

Dried fruit

Applesauce

Pudding

Flavored yogurt

Candies (sugar free)

🥨 Salty ALERTING

Chips

Bread sticks

Croutons

Crackers

Pretzels

🍋 Sour VERY ALERTING

Lemonade powder

Lemons, grapefruits etc.

Sour candies

🌶️ Bitter/Spicy EXTREMELY ALERTING

Cinnamon gum

Black pepper

Chili powder

Coffee crystals

-

Non-Food Items

There are several ways to get oral sensory input using non-food items. They are most often used while the jaw utilizes the chewing and sucking sensations (muscle work). Some ideas include:

Chewing gum (muscle work for the jaw and cheeks).

Chewing on straws (muscle work for the jaw and cheeks).

Using and exercise water bottle (sucking, using muscles).

Using a smaller or larger straw depending on how much work you want the jaw muscles to have.

Chewing on soft rubber tubing.

Musical instruments that require mouth input (recorder, harmonicas, flutes etc.)

[emira-addams]

Hazbin Hotel - Odette x Velvette - Juliet and Juliet in Hell

Chapter 01: Drunken Demons and Dancing Devils

Velvette tilted her head back.

Clouds of light, formed from hundreds of sparkling stars, adorned the deep red night horizon of hell with their scintillating shine. Drawn by magic, Velvette stared up at the far end of the horizon, up at the spherical shape of the heaven that towered above all their heads and hell. The milky soft glow of heaven was shimmering, its brilliance a blur.

Blazing flashes of laser light cut the horizon into thousands of chunks, chasing the stars and the reigning night away as the ground seemed to shudder beneath her feet. The bass of the deafening music made the surrounding air vibrate.

The Vees' lavish mansion was filled to the bursting with guests, drunken demons and dancing devils. Valentino was having a party in his honor after his latest films had won every award in every category at the annual film festival.

A satisfied smile graced Velvette's black lips as she hastily weaved her way through the dense crowds. Spotlights colored the makeshift dance floor in the living room a somber shade of red, while blue strobe lights flashed through the stuffy room.

Long shadows danced along the walls in euphoria. White fairy lights and glittering garlands wrapped along the chrome-colored railing of the open gallery, an illuminated disco ball spun under the ceiling and balloons hung everywhere. A fog machine added to the chaos. Huge speakers stood at the sides, music blared at full volume and the low infernal sound of the bass was earsplitting.

It smelled like a pungent mixture of cheap spirits, sweet smoke and salty sweat.

People were lounging on the expensive couches in the living room, laughing and chatting with each other. Kissing couples propped up against the walls, shoving their tongues down each other's throats and groping each other. An imp drew a straight line of suspicious white powder up his nose from the smudged glass of a hand mirror. As Velvette passed him, he held out a plastic bag to her with a grin, but she rejected it with a polite smile.

A number of different dishes had been set out on a long table. Fresh fruit was piled on top of each other and a chocolate fountain stood between white porcelain and several pastries. Some guests stuck fruit after fruit onto a wooden skewer, while other sinners dipped their bare fingers into the liquid chocolate.

Velvette quickly grabbed a handful of fruits and a cup filled to the brim and retreated to a corner with her phone in hand. Here and there she snapped a photo, every now and then she sipped the liquid in her cup and let her eyes wander over the party. Vox and Valentino performed the strangest and most soppy dance number, a truly embarrassing sight. Velvette's lips cracked into a smirk as she recorded the moment for eternity and the entire internet of hell with a snapshot.

She was just about to head back to the chocolate fountain when someone caught her attention out of the corner of her eye.

"Oh, shit..." she swore and managed to choke, some of her drink landing on her dress. "What's Carmine's fucking daughter doing here?" Velvette sneered, her face scrunched in irritation. "I swear, just the sight of her spoils my mood..." She quickly drained the last liquid from her cup, squeezed the plastic and marched with quick steps towards the bright blonde girl in the lab coat in the doorway. The floor shook under the soles of her boots as Velvette pushed her way through the dense crowds. Her eyes glistened with a mix between gloom and glee, her thoughts blurred between the neon lights in the wonderful feeling of immortality and melted like caramelized sugar. Her whole body tingling, while the effects of her drink kicked in.

Outside of a cautious glance exchanged back and forth within an Overlord meeting, Velvette had never shared a single word with Carmilla Carmine's eldest daughter, as Odette held her mother's opinion and Carmilla Carmine felt a very strict and stern disapproval towards the three Vees, especially Velvette, a disapproval towards their outrageous behavior and lack of respect as well as their irresponsibility and cocky self-confidence. They were silly brats who starved for attention at every given opportunity.

Velvette wanted to have some fun with her...

"What are you doing so far away from your home and your dear mommy? Are you lost?"

"What do you want from me?" asked Odette when Velvette approached her and blocked her path. She grimaced sourly.

Velvette attempted a wide grin. "Tell me, sweetie, how many times would I theoretically have to fuck you before I get a discount for your mother's weapons?"

"Never!" Odette replied as she studied Velvette from top to bottom in disgust. "As long as I'm in my right mind, I wouldn't even dream of it..."

"Really, you wouldn't? Too bad..." Velvette pouted. "Hey!" she shouted angrily when Odette tried to push past her, completely ignoring her. "May I know the reason why you're crashing this fucking party and being pretty fucking rude to the fucking host?"

"Excuse me..." muttered Odette nervously. She cautiously adjusted her glasses and plucked at the hem of her lab coat. "But I'm looking for my younger sister..."

"You have a sister?" Velvette played dumb, but then she noticed Odette's worried face. "It was just a joke, I’m sorry... But why would your younger sister be at my party?"

Odette sighed sourly. "Clara snuck out of the house. I have to bring her back before Mother notices our disappearance."

Velvette burst out laughing, but when Odette rolled her eyes in annoyance, she grew silent again.

"Clara!" Odette tried in vain to scream against the volume of the music.

Stunned, Velvette slapped her forehead, then took the desperate girl's hand. She immediately intertwined their fingers and felt Odette's sweaty palms. "Come with me, you dumb fucking girl…" she demanded of Odette as they made their way through the crowd.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you to find your sister!”

The two of them found Clara near the chocolate fountain. A cup in her hand and a hypnotized face set, she clung to every single slurred word that came from Valentino's lips. A cloud of pink haze hovered over their heads as his tongue traveled up her arm.

"Oh, for fucking sake!" Velvette shouted, quickly letting go of Odette's hand. "This can't be real now..." She pounced on Valentino, grabbed her colleague harshly by his fur collar and pulled the clamoring moth away from Clara before his tongue could wander any further. "Are you fucking mental, Val?" she snarled furiously and shoved him away.

"Hey… Calm down, Vel!" Valentino defended himself. He snorted, wiped the dust off his robe and raised his hands apologetically. "I was just having a little fun with Carmine’s daughter. I didn’t think you would mind…," he claimed, shrugging his shoulders. "This girl could have been the next leading lady in some of my movies. I would have made her a star, any worthless freak in hell would have known her name," he gushed before leaving Velvette and heading back to Vox.

Velvette scowled at the moth, while Odette quickly pulled her younger sister into a relieved and smothering hug.

"O-Odette? W-What... What are you doing here?" babbled Clara. Clumsily, she tried to free herself from her worried sister's arms, but her balance swayed precariously and Odette and Velvette had to support her.

"I came to save you before our mother finds out that neither you nor I are in our beds in our safe home sleeping..." Together, she and Velvette dragged her sister back to the door.

Velvette casted a worried look at the clock. "You must hurry..." With every passing second, the light from the stars faded more, soon the night would be over.

"Thank you for your help!" Saying goodbye, Odette pressed a quick kiss to Velvette's cheek, the next moment she and her sister were out the door and gone from the party.

"Y-You are welcome..." stuttered Velvette, wide-eyed. She stared after her with a stunned stare as the heat rose up her face and the blush gathered in her cheeks. Suddenly, her heart began to do wild somersaults in her chest. “Fuck…”

Chapter 02:

[kemetic-dreams]

Roots under Beale: The Significance of Beale Street to Memphis Hoodoo History

In the late 1800s, Robert Church, the first African-American millionaire in the South took great interest in Beale Street. After purchasing land on Beale, Church built Church Park and Auditorium exclusively for black Memphians. He also created a recreational center and an upscale hotel. Beale Street was very important to African American life in Memphis as Church wanted to create a safe haven for black Memphians where African American food, music and entertainment could be celebrated.

A community of healers, conjurers and rootworkers began to develop on Beale. Memphians knew that you could visit the right store or juke joint and find someone with the ‘gift’ to provide magical and spiritual help. Beale Street musicians like W.C. Handy began to speak of the hoodoo culture through the lyrics of their songs. Blues singer Lillie Mae Glover known as ‘Ma Rainey II’ became popular on Beale Street as not only a performer but also a conjurer. She would perform rituals and various spiritual workings for other performers on Beale, as well as random customers who knew to seek her out. One of her special abilities was the ability to make mojo hands for blues musicians. While many hands were traditionally made using roots, lodestone and a red flannel bag, Lillie Mae made hers using common ingredients like sugar, flour and a heap of coal.

It became evident that hoodoo was being practiced in downtown Memphis much to the dislike of the white community. Hoodoo and any African based religious practices were compared to savage paganism that threatened the wives and children of the white community of Memphis. Local police were put on alert regarding the threat of hoodoo and ‘voodooism’ as it was commonly referred to.

The Memphis Press-Scimitar reported:

‘The Voodoo business still thrives on Beale Street. Police, looking for a witch

doctor yesterday confiscated a half a sack full of “Stay Away Powder,”

“Easy Life Powder” and “Spanish Luck Drops” being sold to negroes at

25 cents a set. The “Stay Away” powder, supposed to jinx a love rival,

proved to be nothing stronger than flour. “Easy Life” powder appeared to

be a fine grade of ground clay. “Spanish Luck Drops” were more potent.

They were a cheap but stout perfume. All in all, police figured the 25-cent

collection cost the producers not more than a couple of cents.’

Raids on rootworkers and conjurers were quite common in the city. There is record of a number of arrests where hoodoo devotees were arrested and artifacts such as mojo bags and amulets were confiscated and in some cases destroyed in the presence of practitioners. Hoodoo was not only feared but represented empowerment for the black community, something that the times simply would not allow.

The development of a hoodoo community on Beale Street gained the notoriety of the title ‘The Black Magic District’ as many Memphians knew that one could obtain a cleansing, a black cat bone or guidance from the ancestors by visiting the right individual on Beale. In the 1940s gold miners would visit Beale Street looking for conjurers to help them spiritually locate treasure along the Mississippi River. The rising number of Memphians using Beale Street’s healers as a form of healthcare caused some Memphis physicians to become critical and voice offense against the community’s rootworkers. However as writer Keith Wailoo in has noted “Those who invoked spirits to relieve one’s rheumatism or to subdue one’s enemies would not be driven easily from the Bluff city.” Hoodoo was here to stay.

In 1876, Jewish immigrant Abraham Schwab opened one of Memphis’s most iconic businesses on Beale Street. A. Schwab began as a dry goods store offering everything from cloth overalls to blues records. Years later the store began to carry a number of hoodoo related curios. In fact at one point the store was literally bringing in shipments of over one hundred and twenty tons of hoodoo related candles. The hoodoo community in Memphis would purchase oils, candles, incense and roots from the oldest store on Beale. One of my earliest exposures to hoodoo curios came when as a child I was taken into Schwab by my parents. I remember the scent of incense and the colorful collection of candles and curios. It was a wonderland to the senses.

During the writing of A Secret History of Memphis Hoodoo: Rootworkers, Conjurers and Spirituals, I was given the opportunity to visit the store’s archives and see some of the remnants of hoodoo curios and artifacts. A number of old curios from Memphis based companies like ‘LaClyde Lucky Products’ and ‘Lucky Heart Cosmetics’ were preserved in pristine condition saved for their historical preservation. Boxes of dried rattlesnake root, John the Conqueror and assorted herbs could still be found. A member of the Schwab family shared stories of hoodoo practitioners throughout the years and the many testimonies and stories of customers from the conjure community.

These are but a few of the numerous stories about rootworkers and conjurers on Beale Street that were instrumental in the history of hoodoo in Memphis. The history of hoodoo in Memphis is a story of cultural survival that needs to be told.

[heartsoji]

WHAT I FIRMLY BELIEVE THE HQ BOYS' CANONICAL FAVORITE DRINK (AND SOMETIMES FOOD) ORDERS ARE WITH LITTLE TO NO EXPLANATION

SAWAMURA DAICHI - regular hot drip coffee, probs with a bit of ordinary cream/milk

SUGAWARA KOSHI - iced brown sugar oat milk latte with light ice

AZUMANE ASAHI - a bottle of apple juice but then he gets laughed at so he puts it back and orders a hot honey citrus tea

NISHINOYA YUU - grape frappuccino with extra whipped cream and pistachios on top

TANAKA RYUNOSUKE - bro gets a chocolate croissant and an iced water usually, but sometimes he'll get hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and a warmed cheese danish with strawberry jam on top on the side when he's in a good mood

KAGEYAMA TOBIO - blueberry milk tea latte with cheese foam and tapioca is his fav but sometimes he can't speak properly and just orders a cup of steamed milk

HINATA SHOYO - strawberry acai refresher with extra berries and one of those cheese and grapes and crackers boxes

TSUKISHIMA KEI - hot oolong tea with honey usually, but he'll also get the occasional twice-a-year java chip frappucino

YAMAGUCHI TADASHI - vanilla creme frappucino

KUROO TETSURO - hot black coffee

KAI NOBUYUKI - hot hazelnut soy milk latte

YAKU MORISUKE - peach green tea (switches if he wants iced or hot based on mood and weather) with 2/3rds of a sugar packet or half a pump of cane sugar

YAMAMOTO TAKETORA - prides himself in having never gotten an overpriced cafe drink

KOZUME KENMA -large strawberry creme frappuccino with extra extra whipped cream, extra strawberry syrup, extra freeze-dried strawberry powder, and an extra pump of simple syrup

FUKUNAGA SHOHEI -lemon tea (changes if he wants iced or hot based on his mood)

INUOKA SO - mango dragonfruit refresher with strawberry base, light ice, extra dragonfruit bits

HAIBA LEV -says"i'll take whatever your favorite drink is!" then records it, and doesnt give it to the worker and just keeps it (he never understood the vids where they would give it to the worker. hes just like bro why'd u order it if u werent gonna drink it)

SHIBAYAMA YUKI - strawberry frappucino with extra freeze-dried strawberry bits

OIKAWA TOORU - vanilla creme frappucino or iced sugar cookie latte in the winter (will scream at u if u call him a basic white girl)

MATSUKAWA ISSEI - homie goes to the convenience store across the street and gets some weird cheesey beef sandwich with relish on top and a giant slurpee

HANAMAKI TAKAHIRO - homie goes with matsukawa to get a nasty pork sandwich with mustard but then runs back to get an extra hot quadruple shot upside-down caramel macchiato with soy milk

IWAIZUMI HAJIME -hot soy latte

YAHABA SHIGERU - espresso con pana

WATARI SHINJI - iced peach green tea lemonade with no ice

KYOTANI KENTARO - gets nothing when with the group but comes back after to get a pinkity drinkity with cold foam

KINDAICHI YUTARO - pistachio frappucino with a shot of espresso

KUNIMI AKIRA - hot soy half-caff pistachio/hazelnut latte with caramel drizzle at 120 degrees

BOKUTO KOTARO - either a unicorn frappucino or a chocolate cold brew

AKAASHI KEIJI - a quad

KITA SHINSUKE - a hot americano

OJIRO ARAN - a hot matcha latte

AKAGI MICHINARI - iced matcha latte

MIYA ATSUMU - pink drink with extra berries and no ice

SUNA RINTARO - hot caramel macchiato

MIYA OSAMU - hot chai tea latte with pistachio foam and a warmed brownie

KOMORI MOTOYA - iced matcha latte with strawberry jam

SAKUSA KIYOOMI - a single shot of espresso

[mariacallous]

April 12, 2019, Updated at 12:22 a.m. ET on April 15, 2019.

In the end, the man who reportedly smeared feces on the walls of his lodgings, mistreated his kitten, and variously blamed the ills of the world on feminists and bespectacled Jewish writers was pulled from the Ecuadorian embassy looking every inch like a powdered-sugar Saddam Hussein plucked straight from his spider hole. The only camera crew to record this pivotal event belonged to Ruptly, a Berlin-based streaming-online-video service, which is a wholly owned subsidiary of RT, the Russian government’s English-language news channel and the former distributor of Julian Assange’s short-lived chat show.

RT’s tagline is “Question more,” and indeed, one might inquire how it came to pass that the spin-off of a Kremlin propaganda organ and now registered foreign agent in the United States first arrived on the scene. Its camera recorded a team of London’s Metropolitan Police dragging Assange from his Knightsbridge cupboard as he burbled about resistance and toted a worn copy of Gore Vidal’s History of the National Security State.

Vidal had the American national-security establishment in mind when he narrated that polemic, although I doubt even he would have contrived to portray the CIA as being in league with a Latin American socialist named for the founder of the Bolshevik Party. Ecuador’s President Lenín Moreno announced Thursday that he had taken the singular decision to expel his country’s long-term foreign guest and revoke his asylum owing to Assange’s “discourteous and aggressive behavior.”

According to Interior Minister María Paula Romo, this evidently exceeded redecorating the embassy with excrement—alas, we still don’t know whether it was Assange’s or someone else’s—refusing to bathe, and welcoming all manner of international riffraff to visit him. It also involved interfering in the “internal political matters in Ecuador,” as Romo told reporters in Quito. Assange and his organization, WikiLeaks, Romo said, have maintained ties to two Russian hackers living in Ecuador who worked with one of the country’s former foreign ministers, Ricardo Patiño, to destabilize the Moreno administration.

We don’t yet know whether Romo’s allegation is true (Patiño denied it) or simply a pretext for booting a nuisance from state property. But Assange’s ties to Russian hackers and Russian intelligence organs are now beyond dispute.

Special Counsel Robert Mueller’s indictment of 12 cyberoperatives for Russia’s Main Intelligence Directorate for the General Staff (GRU) suggests that Assange was, at best, an unwitting accomplice to the GRU’s campaign to sway the U.S. presidential election in 2016, and allegedly even solicited the stolen Democratic correspondence from Russia’s military intelligence agency, which was masquerading as Guccifer 2.0. Assange repeatedly and viciously trafficked, on Twitter and on Fox News, in the thoroughly debunked claim that the correspondence might have been passed to him by the DNC staffer Seth Rich, who, Assange darkly suggested, was subsequently murdered by the Clintonistas as revenge for the presumed betrayal.

Mike Pompeo, then CIA director and, as an official in Donald Trump’s Cabinet, an indirect beneficiary of Assange’s meddling in American democracy, went so far as to describe WikiLeaks as a “non-state hostile intelligence service often abetted by state actors like Russia.” For those likening the outfit to legitimate news organizations, I’d submit that this is a shade more severe a description, especially coming from America’s former spymaster, than anything Trump has ever grumbled about The New York Times or The Washington Post.

Russian diplomats had concocted a plot, as recently as late 2017, to exfiltrate Assange from the Ecuadorian embassy, according to The Guardian. “Four separate sources said the Kremlin was willing to offer support for the plan—including the possibility of allowing Assange to travel to Russia and live there. One of them said that an unidentified Russian businessman served as an intermediary in these discussions.” The plan was scuttled only because it was deemed too dangerous.

In 2015, Focus Ecuador reported that Assange had aroused suspicion among Ecuador’s own intelligence service, SENAIN, which spied on him in the embassy in a years-long operation. “In some instances, [Assange] requested that he be able to choose his own Security Service inside the embassy, even proposing the use of operators of Russian nationality,” the Ecuadorian journal noted, adding that SENAIN looked on such a proposal with something less than unmixed delight.

All of which is to say that Ecuador had ample reasons of its own to show Assange the door and was well within its sovereign rights to do so. He first sought refuge in the embassy after he jumped bail more than seven years ago to evade extradition to Sweden on sexual-assault charges brought by two women. Swedish prosecutors suspended their investigation in 2017 into the most serious allegation of rape because they’d spent five years trying but failing to gain access to their suspect to question him. (That might now change, and so the lawyer for that claimant has filed to reopen the case.) But the British charges remained on the books throughout.

The Times of London leader writer Oliver Kamm has noted that quite apart from being a “victim of a suspension of due process,” Assange is “a fugitive from it.” Yet to hear many febrile commentators tell it, his extradition was simply a matter of one sinister prime minister cackling down the phone to another, with the CIA nodding approvingly in the background, as an international plot unfurled to silence a courageous speaker of truth to power. Worse than that, Assange and his ever-dwindling claque of apologists spent years in the pre-#MeToo era suggesting, without evidence, that the women who accused him of being a sex pest were actually American agents in disguise, and that Britain was simply doing its duty as a hireling of the American empire in staking out his diplomatic digs with a net.

As it happens, a rather lengthy series of U.K. court cases and Assange appeals, leading all the way up to the Supreme Court, determined Assange’s status in Britain.

The New Statesman’s legal correspondent, David Allen Green, expended quite a lot of energy back in 2012 swatting down every unfounded assertion and conspiracy theory for why Assange could not stand before his accusers in Scandinavia without being instantly rendered to Guantanamo Bay. Ironically, as Green noted, going to Stockholm would make it harder for Assange to be sent on to Washington because “any extradition from Sweden … would require the consent of both Sweden and the United Kingdom” instead of just the latter country. Nevertheless, Assange ran and hid and self-pityingly professed himself a “political prisoner.”

Everything about this Bakunin of bullshit and his self-constructed plight has belonged to the theater of the absurd. I suppose it’s only fair that absurdity dominates the discussion now about a newly unsealed U.S. indictment of Assange. According to Britain’s Home Office, the Metropolitan Police arrested Assange for skipping bail, and then, when he arrived at the police station, he was further arrested “in relation to a provisional extradition request from the United States.”

The operative word here is provisional, because that request has yet to be wrung through the same domestic legal protocols as Sweden’s. Assange will have all the same rights he was accorded when he tried to beat his first extradition rap in 2010. At Assange’s hearing, the judge dismissed his claims of persecution by calling him “a narcissist who cannot get beyond his own selfish interests.” Neither can his supporters.

A “dark moment for press freedom,” tweeted the NSA whistle-blower Edward Snowden from his security in press-friendly Moscow. “It’s the criminalization of journalism by the Trump Justice Department and the gravest threat to press freedom, by far, under the Trump presidency,” intoned The Intercept’s founding editor Glenn Greenwald who, like Assange, has had that rare historical distinction of having once corresponded with the GRU for an exclusive.

These people make it seem as if Assange is being sought by the Eastern District of Virginia for publishing American state secrets rather than for allegedly conniving to steal them.

The indictment makes intelligible why a grand jury has charged him. Beginning in January 2010, Chelsea Manning began passing to WikiLeaks (and Assange personally) classified documents obtained from U.S. government servers. These included files on the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq and U.S. State Department cables. But Manning grew hesitant to pilfer more documents.*

At this point, Assange allegedly morphed from being a recipient and publisher of classified documents into an agent of their illicit retrieval. “On or about March 8, 2010, Assange agreed to assist [Chelsea] Manning in cracking a password stored on United States Department of Defense computers connected to the Secret Internet Protocol Networks, a United States government network used for classified documents and communications,” according to the indictment.

Assange allegedly attempted to help Manning do this using a username that was not hers in an effort to cover her virtual tracks. In other words, the U.S. accuses him of instructing her to hack the Pentagon, and offering to help. This is not an undertaking any working journalist should attempt without knowing that the immediate consequence will be the loss of his job, his reputation, and his freedom at the hands of the FBI.

I might further direct you to Assange’s own unique brand of journalism, when he could still be said to be practicing it. Releasing U.S. diplomatic communiqués that named foreigners living in conflict zones or authoritarian states and liaising with American officials was always going to require thorough vetting and redaction, lest those foreigners be put in harm’s way. Assange did not care—he wanted their names published, according to Luke Harding and David Leigh in WikiLeaks: Inside Julian Assange’s War on Secrecy. As they recount the story, when Guardian journalists working with WikiLeaks to disseminate its tranche of U.S. secrets tried to explain to Assange why it was morally reprehensible to publish the names of Afghans working with American troops, Assange replied: “Well, they’re informants. So, if they get killed, they’ve got it coming to them. They deserve it.” (Assange denied the account; the names, in the end, were not published in The Guardian, although some were by WikiLeaks in its own dump of the files.)**

James Ball, a former staffer at WikiLeaks—who argues against Assange’s indictment in these pages—has also remarked on Assange’s curious relationship with a notorious Holocaust denier named Israel Shamir:

Shamir has a years-long friendship with Assange, and was privy to the contents of tens of thousands of US diplomatic cables months before WikiLeaks made public the full cache. Such was Shamir’s controversial nature that Assange introduced him to WikiLeaks staffers under a false name. Known for views held by many to be antisemitic, Shamir aroused the suspicion of several WikiLeaks staffers—myself included—when he asked for access to all cable material concerning ‘the Jews,’ a request which was refused.

Shamir soon turned up in Moscow where, according to the Russian newspaper Kommersant, he was offering to write articles based on these cables for $10,000 a pop. Then he traveled to Minsk, where he reportedly handed over a cache of unredacted cables on Belarus to functionaries for Alexander Lukashenko’s dictatorship, whose dissident-torturing secret police is still conveniently known as the KGB.

Fish and guests might begin to stink after three days, but Assange has reeked from long before he stepped foot in his hideaway cubby across from Harrods. He has put innocent people’s lives in danger; he has defamed and tormented a poor family whose son was murdered; he has seemingly colluded with foreign regimes not simply to out American crimes but to help them carry off their own; and he otherwise made that honorable word transparency in as much of a need of delousing as he is.

Yet none of these vices has landed him in the dock. If he is innocent of hacking U.S. government systems—or can offer a valid public-interest defense for the hacking—then let him have his day in court, first in Britain and then in America. But don’t continue to fall for his phony pleas for sympathy, his megalomania, and his promiscuity with the facts. Julian Assange got what he deserved.

[bachibabe]

𝐕𝐈𝐏𝐬 !!

Also known as my mutuals list! Users most dear to my heart in alphabetical order with things that remind me of them below <3 pls lmk if I missed you!!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ AALI જ⁀➴ @tteokdoroki

kittens, fluffy coats, warm mittens, fresh laid snow

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ARSON જ⁀➴ @angsty-microwave

neon purple, cat memes, late nights, living to the fullest

⊹ ࣪ ˖ BRIA જ⁀➴ @planetsano

pastel pink, warm being, fluffy clouds, caring world

⊹ ࣪ ˖ CALLIE જ⁀➴ @oh-katsuki

sunset orange, book stores, regency era, cozy dreams

⊹ ࣪ ˖ DEJA જ⁀➴ @dejwrld

rose quartz, puppy dogs, mall trips, extra sugar in tea

⊹ ࣪ ˖ JEN જ⁀➴ @taiphoric

jade stones, headphones, a welcome home, strong soul

⊹ ࣪ ˖ JES જ⁀➴ @animewomensupremacy

dark green, picnic’s under stars, black cat, cassette player

⊹ ࣪ ˖ JUNI જ⁀➴ @junibugs

warm brown, pretty piercings, white shirts, leather covers

⊹ ࣪ ˖ KIERRA જ⁀➴ @sluttsumu

golf skirts, champagne flutes, diamond necklaces, crystal

⊹ ࣪ ˖ KITTY / BUNBUN જ⁀➴ @kenslilove

early 2000s, pink + blue, stomping in puddles

⊹ ࣪ ˖ LOTTE જ⁀➴ @pparadiselost

white sheets, fancy art, balconies, dancing in the rain

⊹ ࣪ ˖ LUMI જ⁀➴ @koucaine

retro kitchens, old souls, powder flying, laughter and light

⊹ ࣪ ˖ MAC જ⁀➴ @mcdonaldsnumberone

ocean pearls, fish tails, pretty blues, men falling for you

⊹ ࣪ ˖ OAK જ⁀➴ @rinneverse

orange cats, video games, neon lights, fighting for your life

⊹ ࣪ ˖ SORIN જ⁀➴ @todorosie

warm cookies, childhood friends, full hearts, play fights

⊹ ࣪ ˖ STASSIE જ⁀➴ @softwiingz

teddy bears, retro cartoons, comfy couches, pink world

⊹ ࣪ ˖ TALLULAH જ⁀➴ @antizenin

gentle meadow, calm breeze, purple flowers, parasols

⊹ ࣪ ˖ VIE જ⁀➴ @thomae

vintage blue, record stores, matching plushies, warm rain

⊹ ࣪ ˖ YUYU જ⁀➴ @yunymphs

bunnies, princesses and princes, glimmering gems, awake

[thethirdromana]

Servalan's costumes, rated

I was supposed to be going out and doing fun things like bouldering tonight, but it's pouring with rain, so instead I'm staying in and looking at Blake's 7 screengrabs.

Screengrabs from here (they prefer their images copied, not linked) and record of what Servalan wears when from here.

As seen in Seek-Locate-Destroy.

We begin the list with what is - delightfully, amazingly - a relatively understated costume by Servalan standards. I guess it's the shorter sleeves over longer sleeves (a consistent Blake's 7 design choice, I guess that's just what fashion is like in the Grim Future) that gives the sense that this might be Dress Down Friday in the offices of the Federation. Almost dowdy in comparison with what's to come. Let's keep our powder dry for now. 5/10.

As seen in Project Avalon.

What amazes me about this costume is how silly it looks in screengrab form - seriously, take a moment to really look at Servalan's tiny head emerging turtle-like from the enormous quantity of furs - and yet, in motion, Jacqueline Pearce completely pulls it off. It's ridiculous, of course it is, but not for one moment do you doubt that this is the kind of thing that Servalan would choose to wear and feel comfortable in. It also gets an extra point or two for how the opening of the coat is tailored to the collar of the dress she wears underneath. 6/10.

As seen in Project Avalon and Deliverance.

There's a fun process that happens when you look at lots of Servalan's costumes (bearing in mind that I've preloaded all the images!) where you start to look at something like this and think, yeah, that looks normal enough, I could wear something like that to the office. And then you step back and go, no the fuck I couldn't, and you admire everyone involved in the process that brought us here. Love the beading and ruching, love the way that big collar actually looks quite comfortable, love the way that Jacqueline Pearce is lounging in it. 9/10.

As seen in Orac.

Trousers? On Servalan? Not sure how I feel about that, and I get the impression nor is she. On anyone else the coordination of white gloves and shiny white knee-high boots would be noteworthy, on Servalan it's just a Tuesday. Bit bland to be honest. 4/10.

As seen in Weapon.

There's an image limit to deal with, so I'm sacrificing at least one further fluffy overcoat thing in order to show more photos of this magnificent costume, and I make no apologies for that. Look at this swan-queen spun-sugar exposed-midriff confection of delight. Just when you think you've absorbed it all you notice the fishnet sleeves and the floor-length cape. Maybe it would be worth submitting to just a little bit of remorselessly evil oppression for the opportunity to float around all day dressed like this. 100/10.

As seen in Pressure Point.

It takes quite an outfit for you not to really notice the Sexy Stormtrooper vibe of the Mutoids in the background. And so Servalan is delivering quite an outfit here. What a jacket, what a hat. Ladies Day at Ascot never looked so good. 9/10.

As also seen in Pressure Point.

This is one of those beaded lizards that we all made when we were eight, right? I feel like I should like this: it's flattering, it's a bit weird, it's a nice dress with 25cm or more of a sparkly gecko giving it jazz hands across Servalan's chest, but somehow it's just not coming together for me. Maybe it's the lack of a massive collar. 5/10.

As seen in Trial and Voice from the Past.

No. Absolutely not. The nadir of Servalan outfits, from the weird double-breasted bodice, which I can only describe as military meets straitjacket, to the terrible combination of off-grey stockings and shiny silver shoes. Even Jacqueline Pearce is struggling to make this look good. 0/10.

As seen in Gambit.

From the nadir to very nearly the zenith. This is only one of two times that Servalan wears an outfit that isn't black or white and wow, does she make it count. The red! The glitter! The big frill thing that looks like the kind of adaptation a lizard might use to warn off predators! Also, not to get too pervy, but I think this has to get extra points for whatever machinations are preventing her boobs from making a bid from freedom from the astonishingly low neckline. 12/10.

As seen in The Keeper.

It's another big fluffy robe! But a different one from the previous big fluffy robe! I like to think she might be hiding snacks under there. 7/10.

As seen in Star One and Aftermath.

This is... a normal dress. Could be an understated bridal gown, plausibly a cocktail dress, but I could imagine both having this in my wardrobe and actually wearing it, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. It's just not what Servalan's costumes are for, you know? Obviously she looks great but where's the pizzazz, where's the oomph, where's the collar that could take someone's eye out? 6/10.

As seen in Aftermath and Powerplay.

This is technically Dayna's dress, but Servalan wears it for two whole episodes, so it counts. Which is a pity because it's just so drab. It shouldn't be! It has a funky triangle neckline, only one sleeve, and a ribbon arm wrap on the sleeveless side like she's heading off to a festival with hippies. Unfortunately the colour scheme brings to mind nothing so much as a faded bus seat and the smock-like cut is deeply unflattering. 2/10.

As seen in Volcano.

Things I like about this: for once Servalan gets to cover both shoulders, her arms and her cleavage. Jacqueline Pearce must have been so warm! It looks comfortable and practical. And dull, but I suppose it must be a lot of pressure on a Supreme Commander to look fabulous all the time. 4/10.

As seen in The Harvest of Kairos.

Fun fact, of all of Servalan's outfits this is actually the closest to something that I used to have in my wardrobe. Mine was navy blue on one side and stripey on the other, and the stripey side emerged into a similar enormous... sleeve... thing?? I never wore it to my day job, but you know, perhaps I should have done. These are the kinds of things that Servalan inspires us towards. 8/10.

As seen in Children of Auron.

And just like that, Servalan changes her colour scheme. Black, of course, looks just as good on her as white did, and I can't decide which I like better. What makes this outfit is the detailing: the collar, the little decorative slashes like a Tudor nobleman would use to show off his undershirt. 6/10.

As seen in Rumours of Death.

I just spent ages scrolling through red carpet photos to try to find the celebrity who I swear recently wore almost this exact outfit. And I can't find them. But never mind! This ticks so many boxes for me: it looks everso pretty, it seems wearable, and the floofy sleeve feels like it reflects plausible fashion trends of the Blake's 7 universe. 9/10.

As seen in Moloch.

Whereas this is not working for me. This is, thank goodness, Servalan's only foray into full-on 80s shoulders (unlike poor Avon, whose costumes suffered from this for the whole of series D) and I do not like it. The wide shoulders, made to look wider by the silver detailing, just serve to make the rest of her look small. And no one should make Servalan look small. 3/10.

As seen in Death-Watch.

Just a normal LBD, innit. 5/10.

As also seen in Death-Watch.

This is the same dress underneath with a semitransparent beaded cardi over the top. It should be fun and vaguely goth, but instead it reminds me of nothing so much as the kind of thing you throw on when you're worried you're showing too much skin for a funeral. Amazing how it makes her look about 10 years older too. I miss the days of the massive collars. 2/10.

As seen in Terminal.

For someone who is confidently writing a series of posts about costume design choices, I know exceptionally little about costume, and as a result I don't actually know what this is made of. Is it leather? Some kind of matt-looking PVC? It's a solid costume choice, anyway; I'm starting to think that the mark of a good Servalan outfit is how much difficulty I have with the image description. In this instance, I have no idea what the thing on her shoulder is and I love it. I also love that this is the 80s and therefore she's allowed to be on TV with a normal human belly. 8/10.

As seen in Traitor.

MAGNIFICENT SHOWSTOPPING ICONIC. She looks like a sexy raven and she's having such a great time. The way the points of her eyeliner match the points of her hair! This is the kind of thing that drives people to cosplay. I don't think I would get a buzzcut and dye my hair solely to get this look just right, but I'm also not ruling it out. 20/10

As seen in Animals.

It's so disappointing when you get an outfit spot on and then it's in the wash, and all you can manage from what's available in your wardrobe is an half-hearted replica. That seems to be what's happened to Servalan here. Sorry, Supreme Commander, but sexy raven lightning doesn't strike twice. 6/10.

As seen in Assassin.

Later on she wears a sort of lacy cardi over it, but I have an image limit and I'd only be repeating what I said for Death-Watch, so we're going to skip that one.

This is another normal dress. It's a perfectly fine normal dress; it's hard to see from the photo, but I like the fabric belt, and those are undeniably good earrings. Still, it's not exactly strange enough for a Servalan costume, and I feel for Jacqueline Pearce having to do this whole episode without a bra. 7/10

As seen in Games.

Just as I am running out of ideas for commentary, I feel like the Blake's 7 costume designers were running out of ideas for outfits. This feels like it has a bunch of disparate ideas thrown at it - polka dots! fluff! peephole thing! - but the vibe is of a reality TV show fashion challenge where they have a box of stuff and 20 mins to turn it into a dress. 4/10.

As seen in Sand.

This is a floor-length dress, but it's best in close-ups: it's the detail that matters. It looks pretty, comfortable, and quite soft. It's a nice costume, but is it really a Servalan costume? It doesn't scream command like some of the others on this list. 5/10.

As seen in Orbit.

Don't worry about what I cut to be able to include two photos again, because this is worth it. From the front it's good but not great (though I'm glad she gets a bit more boob support in this one!) but from the back? Superb. She's wearing the splendid earrings from Assassin again, but here they also reflect the detailing on the back of the dress - oh, it's just a delight. A very creditable note to end on. 9/10.