#mark - liquorice

[joanofarc]

don’t forget the halo, grenadine (1993).

write me out your letters in the snow what i wanna’ know i don’t wanna’ know

[millenniumkrp]

𓆩⟡𓆪 - - -𝙒𝙀𝙇𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙀 𝙏𝙊 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙉𝙀𝙒 𝙈𝙄𝙇𝙇𝙀𝙉𝙉𝙄𝙐𝙈 !

the following have been accepted, and have 48 hours to add our admin team: millennial and zoomer. let's kick it !

enhypen's park jongseong (jay)

xdinary heroes' lee jooyeon

got7's jackson wang

dreamcatcher's kim yoohyeon

dreamcatcher's lee siyeon

ateez's jung wooyoung

nct's mark lee

le sserafim's kim chaewon

aespa's uchinaga aeri (giselle)

[tojisun]

CW: noncon; omegaverse stuff so ruts/heats + power and hierarchical omegaverse dynamics; shift in balance of power; claiming; gn!reader; rambly as hell bc im writing this while sleep deprived but! the worms. they are going through it!!!

alpha soap who, traditionally, goes for omegas but you—

oh, how he wants you.

it was a fortunate coincidence, one that has johnny turning to the lord if only to give his thanks because he knows that none of this would have been possible if he just happened to be even a minute late. ‘this’ being the shift in the wafting scents that filled up the little, and on the brink of bankruptcy, bookstore in the corner of the street.

it’s never packed in the weekdays so johnny often goes there to unwind when his senses are overstimulated, feeling his eyes straining in their sockets and his throat closing up almost like he’s having an allergic reaction—he’s had it checked before and leslie said he doesn’t have any allergies.

patches are advertised but no one in this town ever sees them as priority because of how archaic the town still remains, but also because almost everyone is bonded. don’t mind the fact that scent patches are not only for single folks but whatever.

point is that if johnny was tired, he would find reprieve in the bookstore long enough that he was able to gather his bearings and brave another trek around the city because a mission is still a mission, and overloaded senses just needed to be dealt with as quickly as possible.

today should not have been any different. today should have just been another quick break; another quiet lull as johnny forced the buzzing senses into silence enough that he could think again.

today should have just been another day.

but then johnny was opening the door to the bookstore at the same time that someone was walking out—knobby shoulders bump against his—and johnny’s emotions flare up, eating at the reason straining at his mind. something like a storm explodes in the corners of his head, and johnny really should have realized then what it was.

it was not just oversensitivity. it was not just another bout of overloaded senses. it was—

something warm churns from the base of his stomach, before winding down his body until it pools on the plane of his spine. it felt like molten glass or liquid mercury; dragging. marking.

sticky. liquorice.

johnny breathes in, the air passing through his mouth instead. then, something buttery—like wine aged within the barrel—erupts on his tongue. it tastes like honeyed new wood.

like an alpha in a rut.

he turns, suddenly hyperaware of everything, before lashing his hand out to reach for the stranger before they could leave. the touch not soothing, and it has the alpha growling at johnny. the sound rumbles from the base of your throat, like an alligator’s bellow, and yet it made johnny’s gums ache. they want his teeth to gnaw. to tear. to mark.

you growl again, this time in warning, and johnny has spent enough ruts to understand what you want. you want to leave. to hightail out of the shop and maybe even the city, before crawling into your bed—not a nest, johnny trills to himself, not with how clean your scent is because you’re unmated—to spend your rut alone.

lord, would you fuck your own fist? or fuck a toy for your knot? would you fuck your hole too? fill it up too, or could you only cum if you are the one doing the filling?

whatever it is, johnny promises to overwrite your lonely experience. he’s here now, after all, isn’t he? and don’t alphas need help?

so johnny still doesn’t let go, his strength exceptional especially against an alpha whose rut is beginning to swell. instead, he replies to your growls with a snarl, one that is ripped from the rumble of his chest, before showing off his jagged fangs.

it is an archaic way of challenging an alpha, and he knows that no one follows the tradition anymore, but habit is difficult to change and johnny finds himself posturing against you, a shocked alpha whose raging storm of lust flickered just enough to allow johnny to fully tug you out of the bookstore and into the little winding path away from the streets. you protest, trying to shake him off, but you are so, so weak and johnny is so, so powerful, and he needs to do something before he could even think about letting you go.

johnny’s seen it done a handful of times back at the base. it’s not something price usually dishes out, but it was something everyone knew he could do. and one that he could do well. johnny remembers seeing it for the first time and thinking that betrayal will never even cross his own mind because there is something far worse than having a target on one’s back and that was—

it was to—

force an alpha into submission.

johnny remembers kyle’s interest and ghost’s morbid curiosity. hell, he even remembers his own anticipation when their captain had dragged a traitor to the centre pit by the scruff, his pheromones overflowing and stifling like a heavy fog. johnny remembers how john had made it seem so easy; how he was able to coax a gentler scent out of connors when price had cornered the alpha to the point that he bore their captain’s full weight. then, johnny remembers the marking.

the way their captain’s teeth dug into connors’ skin before tearing, and tearing, until the bite took. until the mangled mess left on connors’ olive skin would be a permanent fixture.

until connors’ alpha scent turned softer. prettier.

(price led connors to his room, and the two stayed there for days. no one questioned or teased because they all knew that bitching an alpha sometimes was better than breeding an omega.

and their captain had all the rights to call dibs on connors.)

johnny remembers all of this as he leads you away. his palms have turned clammy, gums aching once more with need. with ever-growing desire. he hears you hiss at him, snapping that he better let you go and that he fuck off before you do something he’d regret but johnny is deaf to all your threats because they’re empty.

lord, he knows you could even barely stand up straight right now—your knees knock against each other with every wobbly step. but he lets you talk; lets you use your words as shield because johnny keeps leading you away from view.

he sees a secured nook, one that was hidden away from prying eyes—you’re his, after all—and begins to settle.

to prepare for the feast now that the hunt’s over.

he pushes you forward, until all your front is pressed against the wall. your cheek is smooshed, tiny pebbles digging into your skin, and he knows that all of that would be unpleasant later when the adrenaline’s gone, but johnny can’t find it in himself to care. because he follows soon, folding himself over your back before burying his face on the crook of your neck.

you freeze. johnny takes that moment to take a deep drag of your smell.

your scent fills his senses once again, overtaking his coherence and bypassing his rationality to drown himself in the strong aroma wafting from you. it’s too good, too delicious, that it has johnny rumbling, pleased with himself for picking you up all for him because you will be, and are, his now.

the weight of his tongue and the throbbing of his gums echo his thoughts.

his. hishishis—

“god,” johnny croaks out, the first he’s said since this ordeal. “you smell absolutely divine.”

“sir. sir, please—”

“shh,” he says, pulling the collar of your shirt back. “it’d be over soon.”

“no— sir! i don’t— please—”

blood bursts in johnny’s mouth and his alpha sings in pleasure.

mine. mineminemine.

[sourtomatola]

Taking Candy for a Fool part 19 (last)

You took in a sigh of relief as you saw Sun and Moon, still monstrous and gangly, kneeling in the center of the group of candy critters. They beckoned you over and you hugged them.

“Actually, Marionette grabbed me and had me sleep in their box with them. They kept me safe. Nightmarionne also gave me a taffy ball. I did eat it, is that okay?” You told them. The other candy creatures gasped softly at the news, making you looked around confused. “What?”

“Marionette doesn’t like anyone that much, and Nightmarionne hate everyone.” Sun explained. “Nightmarrionne’s taffy is rarer than our drops. Everyone knows you now, Cry Baby. You have all of our thanks. We were able to take the factory for ourselves.”

“You plan to stay here?” You asked curiously. “You don’t want to see the world??”

“Where in the world would beings like us be able to be safe?” Sun asked in in solemn awareness. “The sun is hot, we melt. The cold makes us brittle, and shatter. The rain will wash us away…We will be safest here. We have what we need, we can still carry out orders online with what we shed, we can just do it in our own time. We will be okay I think.”

“With a bit of guidance.” Moon added. “Maybe we can make a garden to grow the fruit to sustain us better. We can grow it on the room, or tear out a part to get the sun in. Maybe we can have Bee’s as well, to pollinate the plants and make us more honey to live on too.”

You smiled at their ambitions, happy to think of them being able to stay safe, no longer tortured nightly. Free to do what they wanted.

They moved slightly to show you that behind them, was Eclipse’s body. You swallowed sadly at the sight. You were glad he was no longer hanging from the wall though.

Puppet slithered in, crawling towards you all. They nipped a bite of stuck taffy off your leg, making you flinch. They smirked and continued to Sun and Moon, who they handed small metal box to. Your friends looked to Eclipse’s body, and you put the pieces together.

“Is that Eclipse’s core? Can you fix him??” You asked eagerly.

Moon observed it for a moment before sighing and showed you a puncture mark. “Too damaged…”

“Oh…” You deflated. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be, either way, he deserves to be buried whole.” Sun said and gently opened Eclipse’s chest cavity to let Moon put the core in its place. You watched reverently.

“I should probably go…” You told them after they had finished.

“Come back often, Cry baby. You’re always welcome.” Sun smiled and held you close. Moon joined in the Hug, and slowly, they began to shed the sharp pieces of candy shell on them. Long pieces of black Liquorice tumbled down your back, and chips of golden butterscotch fell to the floor, shattering at your feet.

You pulled away to look at your shiny shelled friends. Sun’s rays were crystal clear and flawless, his eyes brighter than you’ve ever seen them. His candy ribbon ruffle’s colors were brighter, with extra thin stripes detailing them. Moon’s hat was extra soft and wafted the sweet scent of liquorice. His gummy candy collar and ruffles were fluffier and softer. They were so smooth, and had never looked better. Or happier.

The other candy beings started to shed their extra monstrous forms. They all shifted, shaking slightly to help the shedding along, new gloriously pristine forms showed them to you. Carl Cupcake looked at himself and let out a sound of displeasure to not being scary anymore, but it just made you giggle at his childish fussing.

“When you come back, we may have a secret password. Just say it’s our Cry baby, and we’ll know~” Sun grinned teasingly.

“Yeah yeah.” You rolled your eyes. “See you guys in a bit.” You said as you headed to the factory exit. The silent halls, once filled with screams, now had a soft lullaby starting. You glanced back at the group to see Puppet singing again, but more joy was in their voice than last you met them. Without their box, they seemed to flout in the air, their tiny numb of feet drifting off the ground. Moon started to sing with them, taking Sun’s hand. Sun joined in the song, making more of the candy being joyously sing together in their newly found freedom.

end :)

Masterpost | Prev

[wisteriaiswriting]

𝕀𝕟𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕠𝕣 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤

Includes : If they smoke, vape, do blunts or none | Fav ice-cream flavours | Fav kissing places - giving and receiving | Height | Age | and extras

Words: 441

Has done all three plenty of times as a kid, heavily leaning to smoking while in the protocol.

If you ask him, he has no favourites. But when he finds a new flavour and likes it suddenly there are 3 tubs of it in a freezer.

6’8 / 203cm

He’s only 32 years old but everyone thinks he’s in his 40’s, the stress and scars make him look older.

Only smoking a little when she was younger but slowly stopped, staying mostly clean nowadays. Smoking a few times with trusted people

She loves the most sickeningly sweet flavours. (And liquorice)

6’2 / 188cm

30 years old

Has had Tritanopia (blue-yellow color blindness) and somehow never realised until recently, Cypher found out and took her to Sage.

Dude is a gum addict now, used to vape but is trying to quit. Got dragging into blunts.

Haven’t told the person he’s trying to quit, trying to seem cool.

Loves a classic flavour, rainbow (Truly vanilla but don’t tell him)

Loves receiving butterfly kisses on his neck and jaw. Gives thigh kisses. (Is 100% a thigh man)

Will watch shitty romcoms with Reyna after everyone else is gone.

Is covered in freckles and beauty marks.

Will destroy anyone in ddr and racing games.

Is a piercing addict. (accepting bets just to get a piercing)

Has a tongue piercing. (Knows how to use it too)

Also has a belly piercing

Has a fear of losing his buddies. (Creatures and the protocol)

At first tried to befriend Deadlock, quickly finding she isn’t fond of his creatures. Tension always follows these two.

5’7 / 170cm

21 years old

Dude is a gum addict now, used to vape but is trying to quit. Got dragging into blunts.

Haven’t told the person he’s trying to quit, trying to seem cool.

Loves a classic flavour, rainbow (Truly vanilla but don’t tell him)

Loves receiving butterfly kisses on his neck and jaw. Gives thigh kisses. (Is 100% a thigh man)

Will watch shitty romcoms with Reyna after everyone else is gone.

Is covered in freckles and beauty marks.

Will destroy anyone in ddr and racing games.

Is a piercing addict. (accepting bets just to get a piercing)

Has a tongue piercing. (Knows how to use it too)

Also has a belly piercing

Has a fear of losing his buddies. (Creatures and the protocol)

At first tried to befriend Deadlock, quickly finding she isn’t fond of his creatures. Tension always follows these two.

5’7 / 170cm

21 years old

Can not smoke, (Closest is a fog effect.) Has and will express the dangers of doing either. (Always called a buzzkill)

Can not eat ice-cream. (Killjoy has tried to make a version he can, which was oil and a few other things. It did not end well.)

No set age (Android)

7’6 / 229cm

Has smoked a blunt and will die before doing it again.

Loves hazelnuts.

Will give slow and gentle kisses, taking extra care on any injuries gained.

5’8 / 173cm

33 years old.

One of the few people aware that Sova isn’t a natural blond, so she will dye his hair in his bathroom, often shaving it as well

Will vape after very stressful missions, (only with others who vape or by himself) but doesn’t know the names. Will not learn and calls them by their colours.

Biggest fan of rocky road.

6’2 / 188cm

Only 34 years old. (Others always guess older or younger, never getting it.)

Is a natural brunt (brunette) with only 3 people knowing. (Cypher, Fade and Skye)

[plxcx-hxldxr]

I know Pearl undoubtably is already prepared with a long list of words for her wordle game, but I actually have a list of wordle-esque words that I love and that I wanted to share [words with a * beside them are words that could only be used if pearl replaces the q with the w like many people suggested]

words related to flowers/plants and dyes/colours, because its on theme for the shop: tulip ochre umber lotus anise - an aromatic plant cultivated for its seeds, produces a liquorice like taste sumac - a tangy Persian spice made from specific plants in the genus Rhus, related to the cashew family petal basil olive thorn

other words that I personally think would be fun: atone *world *swamp audio *askew canoe epoch - a time period typically marked by notable events or characteristics in a persons life aglet - the plastic or sometimes metal tube fixed around the end of a shoelace or drawstring smelt audit spiel flout - to openly disregard, typically in regards to a rule, law, or convention tidal avert scorn fjord/fiord [New Zealand] - a long, narrow, and deep inlet of the sea between high cliffs ascot - a broad ended necktie or scarf, typically worn by men and popular in the 1890s *schwa - the unstressed mid-central vowel represented in the International Phonetic Alphabet as /ə/ sprue - a channel through which metal or plastic is poured into a mold gnome grail ichor - in Greek mythology, the fluid that flows through the veins of the gods veldt - open and uncultivated grassland of southern Africa inane venom elude sable - a species of marten [a weasel-like mammal] with a short tail and dark brown fur, native to Japan and Siberia marsh tempo unagi - a type of freshwater eel commonly used as an ingredient in Japanese cooking enoki - an edible Japanese mushroom burqa/burka - a loose garment worn by some Muslim women which covers the body completely from head to toe tapir - a nocturnal hoofed mammal resembling a pig native to the forests of tropical America and Malaysia

[roseate-felidae]

Learning new cat colour genetics. Carnelian, kaparti, phoenix, caramel/apricot and pink eyed dilution.

Basically, I learnt most of the genetics of cats and some rodents from a book called the Colour Inheritance in Small Livestock by Roy Robinson. Printed 2013.

But new genes has since been discovered, part 3

Carnelian (kopal, serdolik)- kurilian bobtail

What is it- starts out reddish, then turns pure red with dark tail tip with age (no dark hairs, except tail tip).

Genetics- co-dominant extension gene, ec (sometimes es). In single is golden, in double is Carnelian.

Notes-

Single tabby with Inhibitor gene looks like bimetallic (single self with I is normal smoke)

Single with wideband gene is brownish golden with dorsoventral paleness.

With self colourpoint is taupe points

Kaparti- laperm, lykoi, randonbred cats in carpathians, Transylvanian breed.

What is it- start light and grizzled with white points. With age is almost black, with white points. Sometimes have black face.

Genetics- dominant,

Notes-

Type of roan

Tempreture based points

With colourpoint- is powdery points

Salmiak- randonbred

What is it- originally called Finnish mutation, it causes a roan effect, with a black head and white spots.

Genetics- KIT gene (white mutation). Recessive

Notes-

Found in Finland and Hungary in randonbred cats

Actualy discovered in 2007, despite the gene being discovered as a KIT mutation in a study only recently.

Named for the Finnish salted Liquorice, which its pattern resembles

Originally thought to be a variant of homogenous Kaparti

Phoenix/pseudo cinnamon- Maine coons

What is it- turns red cats into mahogany

Genetics- dominant.

Notes-

Born golden with blue paws and tail

Changes pads colour and brighter eyes

Opposite to extension gene

In self cats the tabby markings are visible as mahogany on bluish background.

Caramel/apricot- Oriental shorthair, Siamese, Balinese, Oriental Longhairs, Tonkinese, Burmese, Birman and British Shorthair/Longhair

What is it- transforms dilute colours - blue, lilac, fawn, cream - into caramel (in black-based colours) and apricot (in cream cats)

Genetics- Dilute modifier gene (Dm). Dominant in dilute cats. Masked in dense.

Notes-

Have metallic sheen on them.

Doesn't effect dense colours (black, choc, cinnamon, red).

Blue caramel is sometimes called just caramel and cinnamon caramel is sometimes called Taupe.

Pink eyed dilution in cats- two accounts in domestic (both female). In Donskoy (Milkdud)

What is it- It changed black to a fawn/bluish-tan colour and the eyes had a red pupil and gold flecked red/pink irides (iris)

Genetics- recessive, modification of eumelanin. "oculocutaneous albinism with the identification of a splice-site variant in Hermansky–Pudlak Syndrome 5 gene”

Notes-

"Black cat hair (non-agouti) contains numerous small dark brown to black melanin granules uniformly distributed throughout all portions from base to tip of the hair.

Smoke cat hair (non-agouti + inhibitor (silver) gene) has a scarcity of melanin granules at the base of the hair.

Blue cat hair (non-agouti + dilution) has larger basic melanin granules, but still relatively regularly shaped, and a non-uniform distribution of granules.

Chediak-Higashi Smoke cat hair trait has even larger melanin granules than the blue dilution, and they are relatively irregularly shaped. All of the cats were Persian and resembled blue smoke Persians.

The pink-eyed dilute cat hair had very small yellowish-brown melanin granules and very few larger granules. Under the microscope, some lighter banding could be seen on the hairs, but the tip was coloured. The base of the hair was paler than the tip (agouti banding)."

Is not c gene. Like albino

She was a blotched tabby (dominant) with moderate white spotting (dominant) and had a slight kink at the tip of her tail.

Was called flavism and Ukraine chocolate in Donskoy once

Has irregular heats

Has no tapetum lucidum and poor vision

Similar gene as pink-eye mouse and non-syndromic oculocutaneous albinism (OCA) in humans

[ifwecrashimaginethat]

wolfaliceband 10 years ago we released our EP Creature Songs with Dirty Hit. we recorded it at ICP Studios in Brussels with our queen Catherine Marks. we were just 4 baby rats who liked quoting the simpsons and liquorice rizzla and big muff pedals and that song by the vines that i can’t remember the name of but rocked my doc martens off. it was a good time :) thank u for enjoying it and if u missed out on the physical release all those moons a go then sign up to the mailer and keep ur eyes peeled on Tuesday. love u and miss u xxx

[itsana004]

Pullin’a bit of a fast one, but I was quite curious. 👀

For the character questions; Mist/no.96? 🩵

Oooooo The Fun Astral, now this is a spicy character we're talking about in zexal, and I have some thoughts on him. Although I have to admit I didn't pay enough attention to him in the past rewatches, so my memories may be a bit fuzzy about him, but I always found him to be an intriguing villain in Zexal, so here lays my truest thoughts on Dark Mist, aka Mr. No.96

•How do you feel about this character

I really liked Dark Mist as a character, he's just a living and breathing slimy liquorice who likes to wrap tentacles around Astral and is so horny for hi- I mean posses him and dreams about making out wit- I meant become independent and powerful of course (we've all been there...) BUT SERIOUSLY THOUGH THIS MAN IS SO DOWN BAD FOR ASTRAL HE KEEPS MOANING HIS NAME EVERYTIME HE'S FRUITY ASF─

There is also a part of me that feels like he didn't appear often enough or there were missed opportunities to kind of hit the mark in terms of writing, but this is Yu-Gi-Oh Zexal we are talking about I didn't expect anything less about a show who keeps shoehorning protagonists and put unnecessary filler over actually interesting side characters (this is my and my opinion alone and I will stand by it).

Ideally what Dark Mist represents is an interesting concept, if Astral is the light then he's the darkness. "Where there is light, there is darkness" Dark Mist said in one episode, implying Astral needs to use the "Power of evil" aka No. 96, when necessary, or a part of Dark Mist will always be within Astral, but they don't use this concept beyond one episode, it's just cheap writing making him to appear once in a blue moon throughout the show and dip just like that.

Later we discover that he is born from a fragment of Don 1000 trapped in Astral and took the identity of a Number card, as Astral likes to randomly split into cards because Yu-Gi-Oh - but what I found very interesting is he's not either on Astral world's side, nor the Barian world, even though he was born from a fragment of the Barian God himself. He's just a free spirit who does everything for his own benefit, but in doing so he keeps getting sent to horny jail- I meant get sealed by Astral.

He is cunning enough to let himself be absorbed by Astral just so he can play him inside the Emperor's Key, which is very smart of him, but then he is trapped in a cycle of...

I feel like the writers just didn't know what to do with him at this point, he's as threatening as the Trix in Winx club (like- I can even draw parallels and similarities) and Astral keeps winning against him again and again cause 'Good triumph over evil yay', seriously I feel like he's a missed potential. Also can we talk about how many times he broke free? Like Astral, what lock are you using to seal him lmao?? (The writers doesn't even explain this btw)

Later on, No.96 just decided to trick Astral into releasing him and then for some reason decided to possess Donald Trump but good for him I guess.

ALSO

CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE PURPLE LIPSTICK

LIKE OMG, I KNOW HE WAS A FRUIT BEFORE, BUT THEY TOOK IT TO A WHOLE NEW LEVEL

He really put some lipstick and said "I'm a god now", can't blame him (Also I have to be honest about his God complex era, HE WAS SO ANNOYING, HE PROBABLY SAID "KAMI" MORE THAN KOTORI CALLING YUMA'S NAME)

Also him treating Vector as a pet while being used and Vector just seething inside was so funny to see, it's like a complete opposite end pair compared to Yuma and Astral.

Overall he's pretty solid, I just wish the writers treated him better and made him a more complex villain (like this guy wasn't in anyone's side they could have done so much more than "he bombs all three worlds cause he can now" like c'monnn they made him flat and one dimensional in the end compared to how he used to be???).

•All the people I ship romantically with this character

I like to ship him with Astral and Vector as a joke.

•My unpopular opinion about this character

He ate with the purple lipstick c'mon now

•One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon

I think I pretty much summed it up in the first part, but anyway he's not dead and alive in Zexal III canon.

[vhim-e]

Headcanon Saturday:🐺🌔

I thought it would be fun to make a fun weekly headcanon dump of different cookie run characters. For the first week of Headcanon Saturday, we start with our favourite lonely Wolfman.

a list of TW just in case

body horror, mentions of hallucinations, dissociation, suicidal ideations as well as attempts, survivor's guilt

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★

Werewolf lived as a wanderer after leaving his home village not staying in one place too long due to fears of another figuring out what he is

he has a problem with dissociating and memory loss due to his isolation as well as having periods where he doesn't recall anything for days at a time, similar to when he transforms. While it did get better over time (when he adopted Sorbet Shark) he still struggles with the side effects.

He struggles with survivor's guilt. After accidentally killing his only friend Sugar Cube Cookie. his home village tried to burn him alive thinking it would make their home pure once more. Werewolf survives but only after getting severe burn marks on the right side of his body. he feels guilt not only for killing his only friend who was a brother to him but also wishes he was burned alive for his crimes and didn't escape.

Werewolf when first meeting others is agile and aggressive. while his aggression isn't that bad. he can get defensive and rather rude when talking to others (but that only happens if anyone did interact with him)

He is an expert in herbs and plants, being able to differ what plants are edible or not as well as which one is good for medicine

he's shockingly good with kids at least with kids like Sorbet Shark :)

when he is in his wolf form, his body makes light cracking noises when moving due to his bones changing length, shape etc.

His wolf form has traits that are more similar to the werewolf tropes of 1920s films meaning it is more of a rage monster than anything while it still can recognise some of Werewolf's loved ones, its main objective is to fulfil its animalistic desires. its hunger is never-ending meaning it will attack if it sees fit

before Werewolf's transformation he gets hallucinations of Sugar Cube. constantly reminding him that he should have been burned alive as well as giving ideas on how he can "off himself". ( guess which monster film I got that idea from )however, the hallucination is just a jumbled mess of Werewolf survivor's guilt and the idea he planted in his head of what Sugar Cube would have thought about him If he survived.

He loves any candy or snack that's salty including salted liquorice.

He tends to be cold when first meeting him (an add-on to bullet point 4)

now these headcanons are after he married Almond and stayed in Parfeadia ( when bro wasn't a homeless single father anymore)

He hates coffee with a burning passion and thinks its gross ( to Almond's dismay since he's a coffee addict)

He plays bass really well and did some gigs when he lived in Parfaedia

He's that kind of father figure who looks scary but is a massive sweetheart who genuinely cares. also, the guy to give you a nice cup of tea when needing to vent and gives the best advice.

massive hoarding issues even before he got married.

his love language is quality time, he loves going to bookstores and hearing Almond infodump about a new sci-fi book he wants him to read knowing he will probably never do it.

Makes the best tea no matter his mood.

Works as a bartender at Sparklings bar part-time

After a certain point in their relationship, Werewolf starts to recognise Almond while in his wolf form and seems to be calmer around him and not like the rage monster it was before but Werewolf can't pinpoint why it happened

That's all see you guys next week I am going to make Almond Cookie next

[nanoland]

i’m publishing a new book! here’s the first chapter!

Dough is a contemporary M/F small town romance that’ll be available for purchase on December 23rd; HOWEVER! you can, if you like, preorder it right now, as preordering is a way of helping out independent creators like myself who don’t have a marketing department at our disposal. i’d be really, really grateful if you did. 

here is the link! 

and here, as promised, is the first chapter: 

Chapter 1

Lucy Laufenberg’s Christmas display was, once again, the talk of the town.

Last year, she’d constructed an entire cookie forest, with wafer trees and coconut snow, through which a herd of gingerbread reindeer cavorted – one with a fat juicy cherry on its snout – their respective positions and size carefully calculated to create the illusion of depth. An architecturally-accurate cabin of pocky and marzipan had nestled in the background, a snickerdoodle pathway leading up to its front door, beside which stood a beaming fondant Mrs Claus.

Adorable, her customers had said.

Genius, the mayor had said when he’d come round for a photo op.

A waste of God-given talent, Pastor Carl of the local megachurch had said in reaction to the banner she’d put up over the display reading ‘Happy Holidays!’, and she was proudest of that.

This year, just to really fuck with Pastor Carl and his Facebook Flat Earth freakshow, the theme was cosmology. The Earth, a marzipan geoid, orbited a sun made from yellow cake, both elevated by thin, transparent plastic rods to seemingly hover against a black liquorice backdrop. The stars were one hundred and seventeen vanilla cookies, nestled amongst nebulas crafted from purple-pink candyfloss and dark chocolate pizzelle singularities.

To render her creation adequately festive, she’d added a bright red fondant sleigh being pulled by a fondant rocket ship, racing a pair of gumdrop meteors.

“Heck, kiddo,” said her Dad when she texted him a picture. “Guess that engineering degree wasn’t a total waste after all!”

The inevitable self-loathing spiral that line would have usually initiated was, thankfully, quickly cancelled out by the already-existing spiral of anxiety she’d been caught in all morning.

The magazine people were coming round at noon.

There would be photographs taken.

In between shovelling batches in and out of the oven, she’d dusted and polished every last inch of the shop. While one hand was giving a customer change and handing over a dozen hot croissants in a brown bag, the other was applying Tarte Maneater Voluptuous Mascara. When Antoinette arrived, dapper as ever in her waistcoat and tweed hat, Lucy left her in charge while she ducked into the kitchen to finish bullying her dense brown locks into an Amy Winehouse-style beehive decorated with delicate snowflake hairpins.

“Very nice,” said Antoinette, her white sleeves already rolled up and busy placing shortbread triangles into a pale peach box emblazoned with their looping logo: The Sugar Palace.

Lucy glanced at one of the six full-length mirrors that lined the shop’s walls to make it look bigger than it was, studying her gold nails, sparkling heels, and very favourite cute, deep green babydoll dress with frills and big, functionless wooden buttons running down the front, currently obscured by her apron. “Not too much?”

Her best friend and staunchest ally was firm: “No such thing as too much. You’re a goddess.”

“Aw.”

“Feel good? Feel powerful?”

“Yeah. Totally. Totally powerful.”

“Good. Now, there’s your coffee. Have a sip, then process what I’m about to tell you with patience and decorum.”

One month older than her, Antoinette Reynolds was the only childhood accomplice who’d stuck with Lucy all these years and Lucy was still ashamed that it had taken her so long to recognise that she had anorexia – long enough that her by-then business partner, ever proud and fiercely independent, had been well into her first battle with recovery when the truth had come out. The last half decade had brought marked improvement for them both, health-wise, though Lucy was still compelled by habit to check with a glance how brittle Antoinette’s nails were looking as she gently placed the mug in Lucy’s hands.  

Lucy shut her eyes. Took a sip. Set the mug back down. “I’m prepared.”

“He’s back.”

“Back?” she hissed, spinning towards the shop’s front window. “No! No, no, no! He’s visiting his grandma in Atlanta! He’s not due back until tomorrow!”

Though her cookie cosmos partially obscured her view, through the candyfloss clouds and gleaming glass she could just about make out a thirty-year-old pickup with duct tape where its back window should have been and thick mud coating its tires. “Dammit. This is not okay, Ant. I went out of my way to ask his brother when he’d be back. The magazine people can’t see him. Absolutely not.”

Antoinette sighed, absently brushing a strand of her artfully messy bob out of her eyes. “Lucy, I get it. I do. This sucks. It’s a blow. But let’s be rational here, right, and let’s not make any hasty… Lucy?”

Lucy was already out the door.

He’s not getting away with this, dammit. He’s not. 

0   

Her holiday displays were only one of many ways Lucy worked her ass off turning her little shop into the cutest thing this side of town.

The front of the building was painted duck-egg blue with creamy yellow stripes. Dense flowering bushes grew in wooden tubs on either side of the main window, dribbling purple petals everywhere. A small cobblestone path meandered down to the road, flanked by a dozen lawn flamingos wearing bonnets and berets. Off to the side stood a perfectly-pruned lemon tree from which hung a charming handmade birdfeeder.

To be clear: Lucy hadn’t been trying to make the colourless, featureless block across the road crummy by comparison. If anything, she’d been trying to draw attention away from its dowdiness.

Alas, the result was the same. As The Sugar Palace had blossomed, Murkins’ Laundromat had become ever greyer and meaner-looking.

(As had its owner, Antoinette was fond of saying.)

But you couldn’t get to Strut Murkins without first wading through an army of half-feral relatives.

A grubby adolescent nephew, Kyle or something, sat warming his ass on the pavement next to the truck like he was guarding it – like there was a single human on Planet Earth who might want to steal it – and smoking a cigarette Lucy tore right out of his mouth as she passed.

He leapt up with a strangled ‘The fuck? Bitch!’ that elicited an amused chortle from the tall man with the world’s most God-forsaken mullet striding out the front door carrying a bulging garbage bag; Bronco, Strut’s younger brother by a decade, twenty-something and looking, as per usual, like he’d spent the morning traipsing around the woods.

(Maybe he had. Rumour had it he was a poacher.)

Getting in Bronco’s face, Lucy snarled, “You let the kid smoke? He’s a child, for God’s sake.”

She punctuated her sentence by throwing the cigarette on the ground and stomping on it, her sparkling heels failing to deliver the decisive ‘thud’ she’d have preferred.

“Hell with you, lady!” Kyle screeched.

Bronco shrugged, which was his default response to everything. “Eh. He’s a li’l shit.”

Then something else, low and incomprehensible as he glanced away. Like her, the Murkins clan wasn’t from round these parts. Some trailer park in Alabama – that was the rumour. Their accents supported it. Lucy got the distinct impression that those accents thickened, quite deliberately, when they were talking to people they didn’t like.

“You said your brother wouldn’t be back until Wednesday,” she insisted.  

Another shrug. “Strut does what he likes.”

Bronco resumed walking, flicking his fuming nephew’s ear as he went by. Gritting her teeth, Lucy stepped inside the laundromat and was instantly assaulted by the only thing worse than holiday carols; holiday bro country.  

‘That Christmas tree ain’t the only thing getting lit this year!’ sang FGL, making her wish she’d brought a baseball bat.

The twins were perched like exotic birds atop a tumble dryer, all gangly limbs and bangles, Priss painting her nails black while Barb groped her own left breast.

“Would you cut that out? Customers gonna think you’re a perv,” sneered Priss, tossing back her long bottle-blonde hair.

Barb, drabber and with a buzz cut, snapped, “The internet said this is how you do it! Catch ‘em early and the doctors can zap ‘em with a laser. Catch ‘em late and they gotta hack your tits clean off. I’m being fucking responsible, you whore. And you should be, too! You wanna work in Hollywood one day, yeah? How’re you gonna do that if they’ve hacked off your tits? Not like you’ve got anything else going for you.”

“Where’s Strut?” Lucy interrupted, before they could descend into one of their habitual screaming matches.

Seemingly at the sound of her voice, the baby, playing in a plastic laundry basket placed below the twins’ dangling feet, started to cry. Dee, real name Dorothy-Amber-Leslie Murkins, was the only member of the family with big, beautiful green eyes, doe-like and dewy. Everyone else’s were blue and squinty. Lucy endured ten seconds of silent, identical squints before giving up and stalking over to the back room.

“He’s busy!” Barb called.

“So am I,” muttered Lucy, pushing the door open and finding Strut Murkins standing there with his dick out, pissing into an empty Coke bottle.

Stream unfaltering, he growled, “Y’all mind?”

He was a broad man with close-cropped dirty blond hair whose body language had two settings – looming and skulking – and was, Lucy guessed, somewhere between forty and forty-five, with deep frown lines and thin lips prone to curling.

“Told you he was busy!” Barb chimed as Priss cackled. Evil little rats.

They all expected her to clutch her pearls and flee. Damned if she’d give them the satisfaction.

“A word, Mr Murkins,” she said icily, glaring at the bottle, because what was the alternative? Pretend it wasn’t there? “Please.”

At last, the stream trailed off.

Strut gave his dick a brisk shake before tucking it back into his pants and screwing the cap back on the bottle. “No time to chatter today, girlie. Some of us work for a living.”

He put the bottle down on the floor, just close enough to Lucy’s feet that its contents would splatter all over her shoes if it toppled.

Her eyelid twitched. Behind her, Dee was still wailing, atonal and shrill. “You have a bathroom.”

“Toilet’s fucked. Plumber won’t be here ‘til late afternoon. Nothing be done about it,” he informed her airily, then added, with a nasty grin, “unless a fine, charitable person like yourself feels inclined to let us use the one in your shop?”

Inspecting her nails, she said, “Mm. I’m afraid that won’t be possible today. Photographers from Transcendentally Domestic will be coming by. The shop needs to be pristine. The whole street, ideally. That’s why I’d appreciate it if you’d move your truck to somewhere a touch more discrete.”

She’d deliberately adopted her snootiest voice, knowing that it was the fastest way to piss Strut off and that pissing him off was the fastest way to getting what you wanted out of him. He’d explode, call you names, make threats, and then Bronco or the twins would reluctantly intervene and tell him to chill out and cooperate before someone called the damn police.

The police, she’d noticed, were the only people, the only entity that not a single member of the family cared to fuck with. Antoinette’s leading theory was that Strut used the laundromat to smuggle cocaine in and out of town.

True to form, storm clouds were already gathering on Strut’s face.

“Hell’s wrong with my truck?” he growled. “That’s my legal goddamn property. Can park it wherever the fuck I like, thank you oh so very much.”

“Well, no. You can park it where the law says you can park it. Now, at the moment, where it’s parked wouldn’t be a problem – if it weren’t for the picture, Mr Murkins. I believe we’ve already had a conversation about the picture.”

Dee unleashed a particularly piercing cry and Strut cursed and stuck his head out the door to yell, “Brats! Y’all deaf? Feed the fuckin’ baby!”

“Already did!” Barb hollered back.

“Then check her fuckin’ diaper!”

He turned back to Lucy with folded arms and a sneer. “Picture on the truck’s a damn masterpiece. Took Bronco three days to spray paint that shit on.”

“No, it didn’t. It’s an anime mermaid with comically huge breasts. It looks like it took half an hour and as I have told you before, it’s not in keeping with the neighbourhood’s tone. I run a bakery renowned for its cookies and sweets, Strut. I have little, impressionable children coming in every hour of the day. What will their parents think, seeing that… that monstrosity?”

“Eh. Frankly, you got off lightly,” he drawled with a shrug. “Bronco’s a furry. He wanted to make her a sexy fox ‘til I put my foot down.”

“Regardless. Please move the truck. At least until the magazine folks have come and gone. Then you can move it back, with my blessing.”

She graced him with a tight smile.

Scratching his stubble and pursing his lips, he said, “They’re gonna – what? Do an article ‘bout that weirdass school science project you got in your window? Why? Who gives a shit?”

Prick.

“Transcendentally Domestic is currently putting together a series on small female-owned businesses and the challenges of managing a start-up in this economic climate. It’s actually very interesting.”

Bronco burst into the room, almost knocking over the piss bottle and brandishing a phone. “Strut! Call for you. Think it’s Sergio.”

Taking it, Strut gave her a final glance, grunted, “Answer’s no,” and stalked out.

“Your lesbian friend’s looking for you,” Bronco told her, oblivious to her clenched fists and gritted teeth. “Says the magazine woman’s here.”

[ronnie-wood]

posting a 2008 ronnie interview here bc why not viva la information

full article under the cut! this was around 2008 when he was 61 and had an art exhibition, based on artworks he made in his studio in ireland

it's a REALLY interesting interview, and i'm glad i saved it a long time ago :D

a warning for discussions of alcoholism though! u__u i sort of understand bc some of his drinking was motivated by grief when he was young, his girlfriend got killed when he was traveling to a gig

Originally from the Financial Times: Lunch with FT: Ronnie Wood July 19, 2008 1:45 am by Rob Blackhurst Keith Richards once said, “If you are going to get wasted, then get wasted elegantly.” At 61, his fellow Stones guitarist, Ronnie Wood, embodies this louche creed. As he arrives in the reception of Dublin’s elegant Shelbourne Hotel for lunch, cutting a path through huddles of overly nourished politicians and businessmen, he’s dressed in the same size of super-skinny jeans, 28 waist, that he’s been wearing for the past 30 years, a pair of space boots that may once have belonged on an alligator’s back and a tight black shirt undone to the chest: the fruits of a trip to Prada before his daughter Leah’s wedding last month. But, even from 50 paces, it’s the luxuriant crow-black head of hair, flecked with only the tiniest hint of grey, that really marks him out as a Rolling Stone. As he greets me with a warm handshake and naughty, liquorice eyes, he says: “I don’t dye it either.” Alluding to his equally thin bandmates, he adds: “We’re all the same build, as well. It’s a good thing I didn’t join Fleetwood Mac.” We take our place in a booth in the newly refurbished Saddle Room, which is all mirrors and velvet and upholstered in a garish shade that might be described as boudoir gold. Wood squints uncomfortably. “Christ, it looks like Rod Stewart’s trousers,” he says.

The Shelbourne is Wood’s favourite Dublin haunt. “I’ve a good old affiliation with this hotel,” he says. “When we played the Point Depot five years ago we were based here. It was like the Stones coming home to my town.” Wood has lived in Dublin on and off since the early 1990s, when he bought a second home in the southern suburb of Sandymount, searching for a sanctuary for his art and music, and shelter from the British exchequer. He transformed the cow byre into recording studios and the stables into a personal pub called “Yer Father’s Yacht”. It seems a dangerous place for a fitfully recovering alcoholic like Wood; there are 20 more pubs within a square mile of his front door. He looks at the menu reluctantly: “I’m not really hungry at all,” he says. Eventually we opt for 12 oysters from County Clare followed by the seafood platter to share. Nothing stronger than caffeine is ordered, though Wood is going through another well-publicised bout of heavy drinking. “A friend came over last night – I hadn’t seen him for years. We had a few drinks. It ended up being seven in the morning.”

Though he has been woken up for the interview only an hour earlier, Wood is lucid and charming, especially when an espresso arrives to kick-start the conversation. I mention his latest art exhibition, Ireland Studio, a six-week show at his Scream gallery in Mayfair. The exhibition features paintings and pen-and-inks produced – mostly through the night – at his Irish pile over the past 10 years. Free of tour commitments – this year the Stones are on sabbatical after two and a half years on the road – he has been able to spend more time in Ireland with his two Great Danes.

Wood’s interest in art dates back to the early 1960s, when he was a student at Ealing Art College, but he took it up commercially for “grocery money” in the mid-1980s when he had blown a considerable portion of his Stones money on a cocktail of drugs and comically disastrous managers. He flicks through a pile of prints of the front garden of the Priory Clinic, where he has been a regular in-patient; moonscapes from the west of Ireland at night; and horses racing on the Irish turf. Sir Peter Blake and Lucian Freud are among fans of his art: “He [Freud] told Mick [Jagger] that he loves my landscapes. That’s a compliment, from the greatest living artist.” Tracey Emin is a friend: “She’s like my aunt. She rings me up every day to ask how I’m doing.” He pauses and confides mischievously: “Tracey thinks she can draw.”

Most of his collectors are Stones fans in the US: “The leading cancer-curing doctor in Florida – much to his wife’s chagrin – spends most of his money on my paintings. She says: ‘Oh, please don’t sell the house and buy another Ronnie painting!’ Though his portrait of the Stones in a Jacobean interior, “Beggars’ Banquet”, sold in 2005 to a private collector for $1m, he is pricing his Irish landscapes at between £10,000 and £50,000. Deals, he makes clear, can be struck.

Wood has become a kind of official portraitist to the court of celebrity over the past decade – ever since Andrew Lloyd Webber commissioned him to paint the famous patrons of the restaurant The Ivy in the early noughties. Now a Ronnie Wood sitting has become as much a signifier of the upper reaches of stardom as a Hello! wedding deal. His waiting list includes the Stones-mad French president, Nicolas Sarkozy: “I met him and Gordon Brown and he was desperately trying to put me on the phone with Carla Bruni. There are all these people like Scorsese, Clinton, Beckham...” but he trails off, as if bored of the fame whirligig: “I’m trying to get away from the commissions so that I can do what I want,” he says. “This new exhibition is more the stuff that I want to do – landscapes, dogs, horses.” The plate of oysters arrives. Wood is a fan of their nutritional properties. “They’ve got everything you need – all the vitamins and minerals. They keep the zinc up,” he says with a mock leer. Discussion moves to his other day job. I ask whether age has calmed Richards who, Wood recalled in his autobiography, used to hold an arsenal of guns and knives that would be drawn during band frictions. “It’s still on the verge, you know,” he deadpans. “Murder is still quite an easy option. You have to be on your toes all the time.” Nevertheless, Wood is more appreciated now by his fellow Stones than he was when he left the Faces to join them in 1975. For years, as a latecomer who joined when the band had already made their fortune, he had to negotiate his fee on a rising scale for every tour and album. “There was a 17-year apprenticeship,” he says. “Charlie and Bill stood up for me. Nice of them to do that, because they could have carried on looking the other way. I’m part of the empire, finally.” In spite of the Strolling Bones jibes, he thinks the Stones have never sounded better in their 45-year history than they did on the final dates of their tour at the O2 arena last August. He says there’s “talk in the air” of another tour next year.

It must feel odd, I say, to go from playing in front of a crowd of a million in Rio to sitting at home. He becomes melancholic. “I’m more lost when I’m not on tour. I’m in a bit of a muddle at nine o’clock – ‘Where’s the stage?’ On tour there are people directing and supervising you. And then when you finish it’s like, ‘Sit down and watch TV.’ Sometimes I get so bored I think I’ll have a drink. I don’t mean any harm but I just go off the rails.” He points out, however, that he did manage to catch himself last month when he checked in for treatment ahead of his daughter Leah’s wedding so that he didn’t miss the big day. A torrent of alcohol runs through Wood’s life. His account of his upbringing in a council house in Middlesex, the third son of “water gypsies” who had left their barges for dry land, sounds like a preparatory school for a career in rock ‘n’ roll. His father, Archie, played in a 24-piece harmonica band that toured the racetracks of England. At home, there were weekend singalongs around the piano that got so boisterous that a crack appeared in the middle of the house. When the family lawn was dug up 1,700 Guinness bottles were discovered. This may sound impossibly romantic, but his relationship with drink turned darker when, while he was still a teenager, his girlfriend was killed travelling to one of his first gigs: “When Stephanie got killed I sort of drowned my sorrows,” he tells me, “and I suppose I’ve never looked back since.” Does he worry about his own health? He’s dismissive: “Here I am at 61 and I’ve never felt better. I’ve never had a cleaner bill of health. I was just in the Mayr Clinic in Austria. They said, ‘We want to use you as an example of how we want people to end up.’ They said I had the body of a 40-year-old.”

As our seafood platter arrives, Wood dips straight into the crab claws. “These are really cool. I don’t know which sauce you put on them.” As he plumps for the shallots and vinegar, the conversation turns to Jimi Hendrix, with whom he shared a flat for six months in the late 1960s. “He didn’t think he was any good as a singer. I used to say, ‘Don’t worry about that voice.’ He used to obliterate real life by being stoned all the time – and he couldn’t handle it. He didn’t realise how good he was.” His last memory of seeing Hendrix alive, the night before he died in 1970, is haunting. “He was leaving Ronnie Scott’s [jazz club]. He had his arm around a girl and he looked really sad. I went out after him and said, ‘Jimi, you didn’t say goodnight.’”

I try to lighten the mood by asking about the Wood clan – who all seem to have found jobs in the family business. He married Jo, a former model, 23 years ago after splitting with his first wife Krissie, another model. Jo is on the Stones payroll as his dresser and assistant on tour, in between running her organic beauty products business. His stepson Jamie is his manager, and his youngest son Tyrone is curating Wood’s latest exhibition at Scream.

The “Little Red Rooster” ringtone on Wood’s phone sounds. He seems agitated. The call brings news, he says, of The Sun door-stepping his home in Kingston, south-west London. A few days after our lunch I realise that he had been given news that the paper was about to write a story about how during the week of our meeting, he was holed up with a young Russian waitress. Whatever domestic earthquakes are going on in the background, he returns quickly to conviviality, suggesting we finish lunch with a drink elsewhere. Though he is great company, it’s something of a relief when his PR appears to steer him to his next engagement and saves me from making the decision. As we leave the hotel, the kitchen staff lift their ladles and knives in salute, out on the street car horns honk, and Wood poses for an endless round of photos with passers-by, loving every second of it. “That’s always been a big problem with me,” he says with a grin that fades to exasperation: “I find it hard to get old and hard to say no.”

‘Ireland Studio’ is at Scream, 34 Bruton Street, London W1 until August 17; www.screamlondon.com The Saddle Room The Shelbourne Hotel, St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2 12 x Clare Atlantic oysters €33.00 1 x Seafood platter €44.00 3 x Espresso 13.50 Total €90.50

[punjabcosmetologyclinic]

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[thelenazavaroniarchive]

13th April 2024.

𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒. GO, - a Swedish magazine devoted one and a half pages to Lena.

Translation;

“𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐨𝐩𝐬… 𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐚 𝐙𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢”

A sonic boom reverberated throughout the whole of English show business when a hoarse girl’s voice belted out “Ma! He’s Making Eyes at Me” on a television show, with professionalism and get-up-and-go seldom seen in her peer group. Lena Zavaroni happens to be a scant ten years old. Now, this Scots lass - a weenybopper, as they call those yet to reach thirteen years of age - has plied her trade in Denmark, and whatever opinion one may have about the vagaries of child stardom, it’s hard to deny that she is a phenomenon. GO met with her. And in so doing, encountered–for the first time–a problem. We have interviewed some of the most outrageous and impossible people under the most impossible circumstances about the most absurd subjects… but what do you ask a girl of ten years who could pass for one just celebrating her seventh? You can hardly ask her views on the subject of women’s liberation. And it may prove a little too daunting to ask if she plays with Legos, or whether her father is the one to handle her earnings. So, we opt for a more casual approach as Lena darts about the room, while her father and English manager help her sort out practicalities.

GO: “How much weekly pocket money are you allotted?” Things grow quiet for a bit before her manager interjects: “One pound.”

And Lena says: “One pound (roughly 10 SEK).”

GO: “Are you planning to go on singing?”

Lena: “Oh yes, even until I am 150 years old.”

GO: “What do you do when not at school or singing?”

Lena: “I play with my mates.”

To illustrate the nature of said play, she unleashes a torrent of unintelligible Scottish phrases emphasized by a litany of expressive arm movements. Rough-and-tumble proceedings, in no uncertain terms.

GO: “Do you attend private school?”

Lena: “Yes.”

Her manager, Dorothy Solomon, adds: “But only in conventional subjects, like English. Lena has never received lessons in song.”

GO: “The songs on your LP are almost without exception old ‘schlagers.’ Will there be any new material on your next LP?”

Her manager replies again: “Most of the songs are new to Lena, given her young age. But the next LP will contain several numbers written for her specifically.”

GO: “Which are your favourites?”

Lena: “Lulu and Shirley Bassey. I would love to make a TV show, and have them as guests.” GO: “Do you get many fan letters?”

Lena: “Absolutely lots.”

Dorothy Solomon: “Almost a hundred a day.”

Lena: “My mother answers them. Most people tell me they really love me, and that they want my picture.”

Dorothy Solomon: “They come from people of all ages.”

GO: “You’re probably aware many people don’t care for child stars. Do you think it’s too early to start at ten?”

Lena: “I don’t think so. I’ve been singing for as long as I can remember. I also know a song in Italian, but I don’t know what the words mean.”

This marks the end of our series of questions, lest we embark on discussions on which is better: liquorice, bubble gum, or popcorn.

“Kindly say goodbye,” says Lena Zavaroni’s manager as I leave. She is a markedly obedient girl, and obligingly says farewell, and extends her hand. What more is there to add? Perhaps that she does seem to stand a fair chance of outlasting your average child star - at least, she need not worry until the onset of puberty! GO’s overseas correspondent has started a class in modern child-rearing, as he is convinced that the next weenybopper idol should be recruited from Bagarmossen day care center! The fact that Lena Zavaroni’s records are selling like hotcakes does not speak to their quality so much as it does the public’s astonishment at the preternatural singing ability of this ten year old girl. Nor was it Jimi Hendrix’s talent that brought him to the fore in his time. Rather, it was his ability to play guitar with his teeth. And, like a wise man once said: The most famous musician in the world will be the one who can play “Summer Night on Gotland” on the trumpet, with the help of the world’s longest and loudest fart! Alas, it’s all about

𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡 𝐀𝐩𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒. In Record Mirror, Lena was 38 in the singles chart and 24 in the album charts.

𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡 𝐀𝐩𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒. The Glasgow Herald mentioned Lena on it's television listings page for her appearance in Junior Showtime the following day.

𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡 𝐀𝐩𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒. In America, Cash Box reviewed Lena's single - Ma!...

𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡 𝐀𝐩𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒. Billboard mentioned Lena in it's international news section and she also appeared on the international charts page.

𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡 𝐀𝐩𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟓. The Sunday Mirror reported that Lena would be driven into tax exile.

𝐓𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟗. The Llanelli Star ran an article about Anorexia and Bulimia, which included a photograph of Lena.

𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟑. In Ireland, the Sunday Tribune spoke to Andrew O'Hagen.

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Black spots on Legs

Do you have black spots on your legs, casting a shadow on your confidence? You're not alone. These spots, medically known as hyperpigmentation, are quite common and affect people of all ages and skin tones. While usually harmless, they can cause insecurity and make you conscious. In rare cases, they can cause other problems as well.

Before you jump for solutions and treatments for this, you should understand the symptoms of black spots or dark spots on your legs. By understanding the symptoms, and causes, and exploring solutions, you can empower yourself to achieve clearer, more even-toned skin.

Recognizing the Symptoms of Black Spots on Legs

The primary symptoms of black spots on legs are the presence of dark, flat spots on your legs. These spots can vary in size, shape, and colour, ranging from light brown to black. They typically don't cause any pain or discomfort. However, if you notice any significant changes in the size, shape, or colour of the spots, or experience any unusual symptoms like itching or burning, consulting a doctor is crucial.

Delving Deeper into the Causes

Sun exposure is one of the most common causes of black spots on legs. The sun's harmful ultraviolet (UV) rays stimulate melanin production, the pigment responsible for our skin's colour. Uneven melanin distribution, particularly on sun-exposed areas like legs, leads to those unwanted dark spots. 

But the sun isn't the only reason behind those ugly spots. Some other potential causes of black spots on legs are:

Cuts, wounds, and burns can trigger post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation, where dark spots form during the healing process.

Inflammatory skin conditions like eczema, psoriasis, and acne can leave their mark in the form of hyperpigmentation.

Pregnancy, hormonal imbalances, and certain medications can disrupt melanin production, leading to dark spots.

In rare cases, black spots on the legs can be a symptom of underlying medical conditions like Addison's disease.

Exploring Treatment Options

If you want to get rid of those pesky black spots on your legs, several treatment options are available. Remember, the best approach depends on the underlying cause and the severity of the spots. Here are some treatments for black spots on legs:

Home remedies: Over-the-counter topical creams containing ingredients like kojic acid, hydroquinone, or liquorice extract can gradually fade the spots. However, be cautious, as some of these ingredients can have side effects, so patch testing and following instructions carefully are essential.

Professional treatments: Dermatologists offer a range of in-office procedures for tackling hyperpigmentation. Chemical peels, laser therapy, and microneedling target the dark spots and encourage skin renewal, revealing a brighter, more even complexion.

Preventative measures: Regardless of the treatment chosen, sun protection is your ultimate shield against future dark spots. Regularly apply sunscreen with SPF 30 or higher on your legs, even on cloudy days, to prevent further darkening and new spots from forming.

Consult a dermatology hospital if you need treatment for dark spots on legs. 

Embracing a Holistic Approach

Remember, addressing black spots on legs effectively involves a holistic approach. While topical treatments and procedures can directly target the spots, addressing the underlying cause is equally important. If your hyperpigmentation stems from a skin condition, managing that condition can significantly improve your skin's overall health and prevent future spots. Similarly, addressing hormonal imbalances or using alternative medications with your doctor's guidance can help if those are contributing factors.

While self-care habits and over-the-counter remedies can be helpful, remember that a dermatologist can provide personalised diagnosis and treatment recommendations. They can assess the underlying cause of your hyperpigmentation, recommend the most suitable treatment options, and guide you through the process with expertise.

[snushus1]

Die mutigen Erfahrungen der Liebhaber von Velo Mango Flame und Lofty Liquorice

Velo Nicotine Pouches, ein Pionier in der rauchlosen Tabakindustrie, ist stolz darauf, die kühnen und aufregenden Erfahrungen der Liebhaber von Velo Mango Flame und Velo Lofty Liquorice in den Mittelpunkt zu stellen. Diese beiden für ihre einzigartigen Profile bekannten Geschmacksrichtungen haben die Phantasie der Nikotinliebhaber angeregt und bieten eine Reise in unbekannte Gebiete des Geschmacks und der Zufriedenheit.

Velo Mango Flame: Eine tropische Sinfonie

Velo Mango Flame ist eine Verkörperung des tropischen Reizes und bietet den Konsumenten eine Symphonie exotischer Mango-Aromen. Enthusiasten können sich auf einen Ausbruch von Süße und einen Hauch von Schärfe freuen, die ein intensives Erlebnis schaffen, das an ein tropisches Paradies erinnert. Die Kühnheit der Mango in Velo Mango Flame hebt die Reise des Nikotinbeutels an und bietet eine erfrischende Alternative für diejenigen, die einen lebendigen und fruchtigen Kick suchen.

Velo Lofty Licorice: Neue Höhen der Kühnheit erreichen

Am anderen Ende des Spektrums erreicht Velo Lofty Liquorice mit seiner einzigartigen Lakritz-Infusion neue Höhen der Kühnheit. Diese Variante bietet eine fesselnde Mischung aus Reichhaltigkeit und Intensität, die Verbraucher anspricht, die die geschmackliche Tiefe von Lakritz schätzen. Velo Lofty Liquorice ist die richtige Wahl für alle, die sich nach einem kühnen und anspruchsvollen Nikotinerlebnis sehnen.

Entdecken Sie die Kühnheit bei Snushus.ch

Für Liebhaber, die bereit sind, sich auf die kühne Reise von Velo Mango Flame und Velo Lofty Liquorice zu begeben, bietet Snushus.ch eine kuratierte Plattform mit diesen aufregenden Sorten. Die Website dient als Tor für die Benutzer, um die detaillierten Geschmacksprofile zu erkunden und bietet einen umfassenden Überblick, um eine informierte Wahl auf der Grundlage der individuellen Vorlieben zu treffen.

Das Velo-Erlebnis: eine Reise in die Kühnheit

Velo Nicotine Pouches definiert die Landschaft des rauchlosen Tabaks neu und bietet ein Spektrum von Geschmacksrichtungen, die auf eine breite Palette von Vorlieben zugeschnitten sind. Die gewagten Geschmackserlebnisse von Velo Mango Flame und Velo Lofty Liquorice sind ein Beispiel für das Engagement der Marke, Grenzen zu überschreiten und den Verbrauchern einzigartige und befriedigende Nikotinalternativen anzubieten.

Mit Velo Mango Flame und Velo Lofty Liquorice im Zentrum der Aufmerksamkeit, werden die Konsumenten ermutigt, Snushus.ch zu besuchen, um sich auf eine kühne und geschmackvolle Reise zu begeben, die über konventionelle Nikotinerfahrungen hinausgeht.

Über Velo Nicotine Pouches

Velo Nicotine Pouches ist bekannt für seine Innovation und bietet eine breite Palette an rauch- und tabakfreien Produkten, die ein kühnes und befriedigendes Nikotinerlebnis bieten.

Über Snushus.ch

Snushus.ch ist eine vertrauenswürdige Online-Plattform, die eine Auswahl an hochwertigen rauchfreien Tabakprodukten zusammenstellt und den Benutzern eine bequeme und zuverlässige Quelle für die Erkundung und den Kauf ihrer bevorzugten Nikotinbeutel bietet.

E-Mail: info@snushus.ch

Website: https://snushus.ch/