#Added to the biography (MUSE)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 4: Temporary Fix]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, crepes, mental health struggles, the Cookie Monster pajama pants are removed...😏

Selected Chapter Quote: “I will push you off the Eiffel Tower.”

Word count: 6.7k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: ​@doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @bhanclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​ @mariahossain​ @echos-muses​ @padfooteyes​ @minttea07​ @queenofshinigamis​ @juliavilu1​ @amiraisgoingthruit​ 

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“Our father never cared about us,” Aegon says at the rooftop bar in Kansas City, a full year before you meet Aemond, a full year before you know him as anything other than a face to be printed on t-shirts and keychains like profiles stamped into coins at a mint, things to be acquired, traded, hoarded, lost. Aegon is swirling the ice cubes in his Salty Dog with a green plastic stirrer shaped like a pirate’s sword. He’s glowing from his sunburn, but he glows from within too; you have the sudden and distinct impression that he’s made of weightless luminance, slice a vein and he’d bleed daylight. A year later, you’ll find yourself thinking that if you cut Aemond, storms and rogue waves would come pouring out.

“I’m so sorry,” you offer, knowing it will not help. But it can’t hurt either, unlike those platitudes that well-meaning but ignorant people like to besiege him with: Of course your parents love you. I’m sure they did their best. You’ll understand how hard it is when you’re a dad someday.

“I figured it out pretty early on. How much he preferred Rhaenyra. How I was the antithesis of everything he could have wanted in a son.” Aegon shrugs; it can’t be changed, it’s like trying to stop the rain. He sips his Salty Dog. Ice clinks; he licks his lips. “It took Aemond a little longer. Helaena was always with Grandpa and Daeron was mother’s favorite, but I remember Aemond trailing after our father like a duckling, asking him about history and books and whatever else, just desperate with this need to be noticed, to be loved. If my father was leafing through a biography at the kitchen table, Aemond would spend hours on Google trying to come up with a fact he hadn’t read yet. If my father mentioned a movie, Aemond would watch it over and over again until he had the lines memorized. I remember one Christmas, Aemond wanted the Helm’s Deep Lego set because my father liked the Lord of the Rings. Then he kept asking Dad to help him put it together. ‘We’ll do it this weekend.’ ‘We’ll do it after I get off this conference call.’ ‘We’ll do it tomorrow.’ ‘We’ll do it for your birthday.’ Never happened. Well summer rolled around and I guess Aemond figured he might as well just do it himself. So he stayed up all night putting that fucking Lego castle together and left it on the kitchen table where my father couldn’t miss it. So the old man comes downstairs the next morning for breakfast and we’re all sitting there with our waffles and orange juice, and Aemond is trying not to act too proud but he is, he’s literally shaking with impatience for Dad’s praise, even a crumb, even just a few words, the maple syrup bottle was trembling in his hands. And my father strolls into the kitchen, glances at this meticulously constructed replica of Helm’s Deep—I mean it’s like a sculpture in a museum, it’s goddamn perfect—and he gives this little snort of a laugh. He says: ‘Wow, look at that.’ And then he sits down at the table, opens his biography of King George V, and never mentions it again.”

This moment is real but it isn’t. Sitting outside in the warm, windswept Missouri midnight with a popstar you’ll never see again (an incorrect assumption) and stories you have no right to hear (so you believe).

Aegon takes another sip of his Salty Dog. “Not me,” he says with a puckish, sad half-smile. “I was never going to beg for someone to want me. I go wherever, I’m with whoever. No strings. No anchors. Nothing stays the same except the band, and that’s what bought me my freedom to begin with, so I don’t mind it so much. Me father is disgusted by me. But this is who I am. And I’d rather force him to watch me torch his legacy than break my back trying to earn love that was given away long before I was born.”

“Do you think that’s a part of why you have no interest in settling down?” you say. “I mean, commitment is a two-way street. And if you commit to someone, you have to trust that they’ll commit to you back. That they love you now, sure, but also that they’ll keep loving you. Maybe that’s something that’s difficult for you to accept. That someone could love you for more than an hour, a night, a day.”

He taps his Salty Dog against the tabletop, considering you, perhaps even marveling: wind in his blond hair, blood in his cheeks. At last he asks, teasing: “What are you, some kind of therapist?”

“Well, actually…in a year from now…” You feel uneasy assigning such significance to yourself—it feels inevitably pretentious, over-confident, unearned—but you can’t help returning his smile. “I sort of will be.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re laying in your bed with the French doors that lead out onto the balcony wide open. The breeze—sunny and warm and smelling of the bakery next to the hotel, croissants and baguettes and half a million different sorts of pastries—breathes in through the semi-transparent linen curtains, a great inhale, a sighing exhale. You can hear footsteps and laughing on the sidewalk outside. The tourists are a cross-section of humanity, with languages from across the globe: a sprinkling of Portuguese here, Arabic there, Mandarin and Hindi and Russian. When the wind flutters the curtains aside, you can see the Eiffel Tower across the Seine. You should be out exploring Paris, but you’re not. You can’t seem to get out of bed. It’s been almost one week since the fight in Reykjavik. You don’t speak to Aemond and he doesn’t speak to you, and everyone knows this but they don’t know why. Not the whole story, anyway. They caught snippets through the sliding glass door, but they didn’t hear what Aemond said to you.

You’re just a groupie. You’re just a slut.

And now Aegon’s words come back to you too:  Whoever you are when you’re in high school…that’s sort of who you are forever, you know?

You pinch your eyes shut and roll onto your side away from the open balcony doors. Earlier you had gotten up, showered, deliberated leaving your room…and then immediately put back on your pajamas and crawled into bed. You have no idea where Aemond is now. He mopes around, he avoids you, he disappears on his 1960 Gold Star for hours, he takes notes in white ink, he takes calls on his iPhone.

There is the sound of a key—not a card, but a real, brass key, old and worthy of preservation just like the hotel—jangling in the lock of your door. Aegon steps inside. He’s FaceTiming someone in extremely poor Spanish.

“Adiós mi amor! Sí, te extraño. Claro que sí. Te extraño mucho. Vale, adiós. Hablamos pronto.” He hangs up and slips his iPhone into the pocket of his neon yellow cargo shorts. He’s wearing matching Crocs and a black Comet Donati band tank top. He pushes his aviator sunglasses up into his hair. “Hey.”

“Hey. Who were you talking to?”

“Camila Cabello. But she can wait.” He kicks off his Crocs and walks over to the bed, looking down at you quizzically. He tosses the brass key back and forth between his hands; Criston keeps the second copy of each one, so Aegon must have borrowed it from him. More likely, he thieved it. “You okay, Stargirl? You look stressed.”

“I am stressed.”

He grins, an eyebrow raised, sunburn on his shoulders. “Anything I can do to help with that?”

And you remember what he said to you back in Kansas City last June, a lifetime ago: I don’t think my worth is determined by who or how I fuck. I don’t think yours is either.

Aegon would never call you a slut. And even if he said it, he wouldn’t mean it in the way Aemond did. It wouldn’t be an insult, a belittlement, a curse. You watch him as he stands in the golden afternoon light, caring for you, wanting you in a way that is pure but not innocent. Do you want him too? Sure; Aegon’s beautiful, and you already know you have chemistry, and more than either of those things he is safe. But he’s not the one who keeps you up at night. He’s not the reason you thought, fleetingly and poisonously as you swallowed your birth control pill this morning: What a goddamn waste.

“Actually,” you say, peering up at him, your lips curling into a drowsy smile. “There might be.”

“Yeah?” He’s a little surprised but very enthused.

“Yeah.”

He whips his sunglasses out of his hair and sets them on the nightstand next to your souvenirs: the Colosseum pencil sharpener, the alabaster Apollo, the fighting bull refrigerator magnet, Portuguese soap and Austrian chocolate, the moose snow globe, the silica mud mask, the stuffed comet, the Eiffel Tower keychain you bought yesterday here in Paris, and if that’s cliché then so be it. The mattress shifts when Aegon climbs over to you, pushing up your oversized Jonas Brothers t-shirt. He touches his lips to the softness of your belly, bites lightly and playfully, gazing up at you through his shaggy hair as he works his way down to the waistline of your Cookie Monster pajama pants. And suddenly, you’re back in Kansas City a year ago, feeling the comforting, harmless heat of him in the downstairs bathroom of a rooftop bar, drenched in glowing florescence like moonlight, your back to a red wall and his mouth all over you, first above and then below, coaxing the darkness out of your veins like a shot of penicillin cures sepsis. He’s antivenom, he’s white magic, he’s a spell.

“You sure?” Aegon asks now, pausing as his fingers unravel the blue drawstring on your pajama pants like the bow of a Christmas present.

You reach down to knot a hand in his hair, wanting to be closer to him, and he smiles, knowing what you’re going to say before you say it. “I am so fucking sure.”

A resistless tug and your pajama pants have vanished. Aegon positions himself between your thighs and buries his face in the thin strip of fabric that still separates you, black lace you didn’t buy while thinking of him. Aegon inhales deep and slow. “Oh God,” he moans. “You smell just as incredible as I remember.”

His thumbs slip beneath the lace and whisk it away: the coolness of sudden air, the warmth of his tongue. You gasp, drowning in the best kind of sea, waves that cover splintering piers and razor-sharp barnacles, currents that erase memory. It’s exactly like it was before. It will always be this way with him, you know, you feel in your blood that carries all the same elements as his: iron, carbon, oxygen, nitrogen that builds DNA, hydrogen that ignites and burns. And just like that red-walled night in Kansas City, you are amazed by how quickly the ecstasy blooms in you, wispy and yet unbearably powerful, clearing thoughts and uncoiling muscles.

“Good girl,” Aegon murmurs with your wetness dripping from his lips, watching your face as he slides two fingers into you; his own eyes—murky blue puddles that hold few secrets—are entranced, rapturous. “Now come in my mouth, baby. I want to taste all of you again. I want to drown in it. Come in my mouth, can you do that for me?”

You can, and almost immediately: he plunges his fingers into you as he strokes you with his tongue and the rush is bliss yet superficial somehow, sunbeams on wave crests, without the kind of miles-deep tragedy, pining, promises that poets like to write about. Aegon notices the towel you’d draped over the desk chair after your shower and reaches for it to wipe his face with, but you stop him, drawing him to you by his tank top; and you drag your tongue up his chin and over his lips, tasting yourself on him, licking him clean. Then you take his fingers into your mouth and suck them until he looks like he’s going to pass out, like he’s going to forget how to breathe.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, and he kisses you just like he did a year ago, with an intense sort of need and his hand against your face, his flesh and blood hot and pressed to yours, palm lines on your cheekbone. He wants you in a way that is unburdened by pasts or futures; and who is anyone to condemn that? Perhaps that is the most painless form love can take.

And as the high dissipates, fog burned away at noon only to creep back in the next morning, Aemond returns to you: his words, his wrath, his flawed yet flawless face. You feel unexpectedly, overwhelmingly low. But this is not the time or place for tears; Aegon is still here.

Now I have to get him off too. Now I have to repay him. That’s fair, right?

“Just do it.” You fling one arm across your face as you look towards the balcony, breathing in Paris and daylight, spreading your thighs wider for him, anticipating the faint pressure-pain that will blossom into pleasure as his body melds with yours. “It’s fine. Go ahead. Just fuck me.”

But when your eyes drift back to him, Aegon still has his clothes on. He sits upright and traces the line of your jaw with his fingertips, studying you with uncommon quietness. “No,” he says softly. “No, I don’t think so. You look sad.”

You nod, unable to trust yourself to speak without your voice breaking.

Aegon sighs and flops down beside you on the bed, pulling you against him, whispering as his fingers twist in your hair: “Come here. Shh, shh. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t help.”

“You helped, Aegon.” Just not quite enough.

He kisses your forehead, and then your cheek, and then he looks at you expectantly. “Are you finally going to tell me what he said? That night in Reykjavik? I heard you screaming something about Missouri, but I don’t think that’s what fucked you up so bad.”

You hesitate as you lie together in the sunlit stillness threaded with distant footsteps and passing cars, Aegon twirling strands of your hair, fondness and familiarity and longing that he is politely trying to ignore. Beneath his neon yellow shorts, he is rock hard.

“Now I’m really curious,” Aegon says, smiling has he kisses your forehead again, entangled with you like tendrils of grapevines, morning glory, ivy. “Aemond’s fucked up too. He’s been lying on his bedroom floor and listening to The Script. He hasn’t done that since he and Shelby split.”

Shelby, you think desolately, flinching. “You warned me about Aemond. You told me he was full of demons.”

“Yup. I’m glad I can’t read minds. It’s gotta be like Poltergeist in there.”

But everyone has a few skeletons in their closet, don’t they? Bones that won’t stop rattling. Teeth that gnash and crave. “He called me a slut.”

Aegon pulls back, brow furrowed. He looks at you, trying to decipher which nerve Aemond hit. It is not a word that Aegon considers to be derogatory.

“But it wasn’t really what he said, it was how he said it, like…like…like because of what I’d done with you a year ago, I didn’t matter anymore. Nothing about me mattered. That he could never respect someone like me. That I had deceived him into thinking I was someone worth wanting.”

Abruptly, Aegon leaves the bed. He grabs his sunglasses off the nightstand and pads across the hardwood floor in his bare feet, steps into his Crocs, slides his sunglasses over his eyes, fluffs his blond hair that hangs in chaotic waves.

“Aegon���?”

“Come with me,” he says, nodding towards the door. He pulls a piece of cotton candy flavored Bubble Yum out of his cargo shorts and tosses it into his mouth. “Right now. Put some clothes on and let’s go.”

“Go where?”

Aegon does not elaborate. He only repeats while chomping noisily on his gum: “Let’s go.”

You rush to the bathroom and are ready in five minutes: flip flops, tousled hair, a flowing turquoise sundress you bought yesterday while shopping at Hermès with Baela and Rhaena. “Okay, seriously, where are we going?”

“Out,” Aegon says simply. You follow him through the doorway and down the corridor; like a bloodhound after evidence, Aegon tracks laughter that drifts through the hallway to Daeron’s room. The youngest Targaryen brother is playing Uno with Jace and Baela; Daeron has just made Jace draw four.

Aegon smacks Daeron’s shoulder and demands: “Where is he?”

Daeron is startled. “Huh? What? Who?”

“Aemond. Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

Aegon smacks Daeron again. “Where is he?!”

“I don’t know!” Daeron wails.

Mercifully, Baela intervenes. “Luke and Rhaena said they were going to the Eiffel Tower. Maybe Aemond went too…?”

“Cool,” Aegon replies. And when he sails out of the room, it’s not just you that goes with him; Baela, Jace, and Daeron file after Aegon as well, chattering conspiratorially. Aegon doesn’t wait for the elevator. He races down the grand staircase to the lobby: white marble floors and Oriental rugs, velvet armchairs and chandeliers, butlers scuttling and women hauling poodles around on taut leashes. Aegon strides past all of it without any interest. You follow him into the street outside and then across it, dodging taxis and limousines. Aegon believes crosswalks are optional. Next he locates the closest bridge over the Siene and traverses it.

“Are they gonna fight?” Jace asks Daeron excitedly. “You think they’re really gonna fight?!”

You plead as you hurry across the bridge, riverboats and swans gliding by below: “Aegon, I don’t want you to say anything to him.”

“I’m not going to say anything.”

“I don’t want you to shout anything either.”

Aegon peeks back at you, smirking wickedly. You know him too well. His pace picks up as he exits the bridge; next comes the vast stretch of gardens that surround the Eiffel Tower, strewn with picnicking tourists, fountains, ferns, lilies, roses, shrubs and trees and waddling ducks.

Jace gasps, euphoric: “Oh my God, they’re gonna fight!”

“Do you really see that ending well?!” Baela hisses back. “Aegon has to be on stage tonight! That’s not going to happen if Aemond snaps him in half like a KitKat!”

“Aegon, you can’t fight him,” you say, petrified. Aemond would win. Easily. Everyone knows that.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Aegon, please!”

“What the hell happened?!” Baela puffs as she jogs up beside you, clutching your arm, bewildered and alarmed. You shake your head. Too long a story, not one you wish to share, not one you entirely feel you have a right to disclose. You’ve only told Aegon, and how is that going to turn out? You don’t want people to hate Aemond. You don’t want to alienate him from the band any further. That might seem contradictory given his recent disregard for your own wellbeing, but it’s—however regrettably—true.

“This is going to be so fucking epic,” Jace says. “Wait, do I have time to get popcorn? I think I should grab some popcorn. Wait, wait, there’s a crepe stand right over there, just give me five minutes. Aegon? Aegon?! Man, please, just postpone the beatdown for five minutes!”

“I hope you can sing Aegon’s parts too,” Daeron tells Jace. “I don’t have them memorized.”

“Cregan can do it.”

“Cregan is going to flay you alive if he sees you encouraging this.”

“He can’t sing all our parts,” Jace replies sensibly.

Aegon battles his way to the front of the long line of people waiting to purchase tickets to go up into the Eiffel Tower. They grimace and jeer at him, hurling swears in a myriad of languages. When he reaches the ticket counter, an aghast employee begins to implore Aegon—“S'il vous plait, Monsieur, vous devez attendre votre tour!”—until she gets a better look at him. Her mouth pops open; her sky blue eyes go impossibly wide. “Oh mon Dieu…”

“You know who I am, right?” Aegon says impatiently. “Yeah, you recognize me. Okay. I need to get up there right now. Me and my friends. What can I do to make that happen? I have lots of credit cards. I can also sign your arm or tits or whatever. What do you want?”

The employee settles for a selfie with Aegon, Jace, and Daeron. Daeron smiles dazzlingly and poses with two thumbs up. Jace gives Aegon bunny ears. Then the five of you receive your tickets. This time, Aegon is willing to wait for the elevator; it’s over 600 steps to the second floor alone, and you’re all already winded from the walk here. Aegon gets off at the first level, does a lap around the tower—tall glass barriers and metal cages around the balcony, a café and a gift shop—and then reboards the elevator to ascend to the next floor. The second level is more open. There is a railing around the edge of the walkway of course, but it only comes up to your waist. Next to one of the tower viewers is who Aegon is searching for: Luke, Rhaena, Cregan, Criston…and Aemond. He’s wearing dark jeans, a black Calvin Klein t-shirt, vintage Adidas sneakers like the ones Freddie Mercury had at Live Aid, sunglasses to shield his damaged eye from photographers, and a fanny pack. He’s biting into a Golden Delicious, round and shiny; juice glistens on his lips. None of them have spotted you yet.

You hear Luke ask Aemond: “Bruh, this is really embarrassing. You’re worth like $100 million. Why are you eating apples and pecans out of a fanny pack?”

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find vegan food in Paris?”

Criston spies Aegon just as he’s closing in. He reads the fury on his face, his outstretched hand. “Don’t—!”

Aegon thrusts his palms against Aemond’s chest, hard, hard enough to force him back a couple of steps towards the railing. “Apologize,” he orders.

Aemond looks at you—for a moment, only a moment—and then back at Aegon. “For what?”

“You know what you did. Apologize.”

Everyone has gathered around. Criston’s dark eyes dart between Aemond and Aegon. He has a grip on Aegon’s shoulder, but he hasn’t dragged him away yet. He doesn’t know what this is about, and though he would never admit it…he’s intrigued. Cregan hovers close by; he lights a cigarette, taking advantage of Criston’s momentary preoccupation. Baela and Rhaena are gossiping in hushed voices. From behind his black sunglasses, Aemond stares at his brother, the wheels in his mind spinning. He doesn’t hit him, though he easily could. He doesn’t seem to have the spirit for it.

“Whoo!” Jace shouts, pumping his fist in the air. “Fight, fight, fight!”

Daeron mutters to Luke: “Are we taking bets?”

“Um, no?!”

“Right now,” Aegon tells Aemond, and shoves him again. “I mean it. I will push you off the Eiffel Tower.”

“Whoa, illegal!” Jace hoots. Cregan hooks a hand into the collar of Jace’s polo and yanks him back. “Hey, referee abuse over here—!”

“I will break your fucking arm,” Cregan growls.

“Okay,” Jace says. “Got it. No problem. I’m done now.”

“Apologize,” Aegon commands again, as if you’re the only people here: him, you, Aemond.

You are mortified. “Aegon, please don’t—”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says. He’s looking at you again, and this time he doesn’t turn away. You wish you could see his eyes: windows to the soul, however clouded they might be. It’s the first time he’s spoken to you since Reykjavik. The gravity of it—his voice, his steady gaze, the gut-punch realization of how much you still want him—knocks all the words out of your skull. You sweep them up like a child collecting spilled coins in cupped hands.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Aemond’s tone is benign, calm, like he’s already rehearsed this and has just been waiting for the opportune moment. “I shouldn’t have said that. I was speaking out of anger. It was impulsive of me, it was indecorous.”

What the fuck? Indecorous…? Who uses words like that in casual conversation? Incurably pretentious Aemond Targaryen, that’s who. “Thanks, I guess. You must spend a lot of time with your thesaurus.”

“Well, I write lyrics, so.”

“Yeah.” You wait for Aemond to add the most important part: that he was wrong about what he said, that it wasn’t true. But he doesn’t go there. He only apologizes for speaking it into existence, for vibrating the air with its treacherous molecules. “Okay,” you tell Aegon. “I think you got what you wanted. Can we go now?”

“Sure.” Aegon slaps Aemond across the back and gives him one final glare, swift but cutting.

“What’s a thesaurus?” Daeron whispers to Luke, who shrugs.

“Some kind of dinosaur…?”

“That’s alright, boys!” Jace says, clapping his hands. “Walk it off! Take a breather! Plenty of time for Round 2 later!” Cregan bends one arm behind his back. “Ow—!”

“No smoking,” Criston snaps, ripping the cigarette out of Cregan’s mouth and stomping it into ash.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, after soundcheck, eating dinner in the gardens under the lengthening shadow of the Eiffel Tower, dark stripes that swallow up daylight like bathwater sucked down a drain. Everyone has a crepe that’s rolled up in wax paper, as Europeans serve it…everyone except Aemond, of course. He’s sitting by himself under a 200-year-old sycamore tree and gnawing morosely on a plain baguette that’s as long as his own forearm. His iPhone rings; he checks who it is and then silences the call. Luke goes over to sit with him, dripping whipped cream from his banana and Nutella crepe all over his white shorts speckled with sailboats. You keep trying not to look at Aemond. Each time you see him is like poking a bruise; it’s nothing but pain, but you can’t seem to stop.

“Oh wow!” Baela cries, beaming as she scrolls through her phone. “The Paris Opera Ballet is performing Romeo and Juliette this season!”

“Neat!” Rhaena says. “Like right now?”

“Yeah. We could catch a show before we leave next week.” She turns to Jace. “Baby?” And when he ignores her, she rubs his shoulder, her voice honeyed. “Jace?”

He groans. “Really? Ballet?”

Baela frowns. “I think it would be fun.”

“I think you can go without me.” Jace points to Aemond, grinning. “Take him, he likes archaic things. Hell, he is one now.” New lines appear in Aemond’s brow, but he gives no other indication that he’s heard this.

“You can’t spare one afternoon for me?” Baela says; and her words have turned from honey to battery acid. “Are you fucking serious? Do you know what I’ve given up for you?”

Jace sighs heavily. “I knew you were going to make this into a thing.”

“Me?! You’re the person who’s being unfair here, I’m asking for one afternoon—!”

“There’s literally no reason why you can’t go with someone who won’t feel like they’re being tortured for three hours.”

“Torture? That’s what my life’s work is to you? Torture?!”

“Well now I definitely don’t want to go anywhere with you if you’re going to act like this—”

“Act like what, like I want my boyfriend to occasionally show even a vague interest in something I care about—?!”

As they go back and forth, everyone else stares down at their dinner, actively dissociating.

Baela asks you: “You want to weigh in on this?” It’s not really a question.

You take a cagy bite of your baked apple crepe. “Um, honestly, I don’t really have much experience with couples counseling.”

“Great. Now’s your chance to acquire some.”

“Uh…” You eat some more of your crepe, slurp your citron pressé, a sort of do-it-yourself lemonade. Baela waits. Jace smirks at you, attentive but not for the right reasons. “Well. I guess what I can say is that it’s important for both people to have their interests valued and their needs met. So for every activity that Jace chooses, there should be roughly the same amount of time spent on something that Baela wants to do.”

“Yeah but I have a lot less free time,” Jace says. “Since…you know…I happen to be in a world-famous boy band in the midst of their third global tour.”

Baela pitches back: “Exactly, which has completely taken over my life, so I think if I could get just one fucking afternoon where you show me some minuscule amount of appreciation then that might be kind of nice, you know?”

“Jace,” you say gently. You can see on the periphery of your vision that Aemond is watching you, once again hidden behind sunglasses that you know he wishes he didn’t feel the need to wear. “It sounds like this is really important to Baela.”

He sighs again. “Baela, Baela, ballerina,” Jace muses, somewhat affectionately but without respect. “Okay. We’ll see. We might have time tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Baela agrees; but already she looks defeated. And she is not a woman who defeat comes naturally to. She’s been worn down by weeks, months, years of the same rote disappointment. She glances at a street vendor who’s selling falafel. “Hey,” she says to Rhaena. “Go get us some wraps.”

“Me?” Rhaena peers nervously at the falafel cart. “What if he only speaks French? Or some other language I don’t know?”

“Then point to the sign, you’ll figure it out,” Baela replies testily.

“I’ll go too, Rhaena,” you offer. “And you can order but I’ll stand there with you and help if any charades need to be done. Will that make it easier?”

“Sure,” Rhaena says. “Okay. Deal.”

And when you return ten minutes later, along with all the other food you have one order of plain falafel: no yogurt sauce, no wrap. You bring it to Aemond, who is stunned. “What’s this?”

“It’s vegan. Falafel is vegan. So here, your dinner just got a little more exciting.”

“Well…thanks.” He takes it with tentative hands.

“That’s so thoughtful of you!” Luke says cheerfully. “Do they have falafel in Kansas?”

“Missouri,” you correct. “And not really. But I ate a lot of it when I was at UChicago.”

This captures Aemond’s interest. “You went to UChicago?”

“Yes, Aemond. Shockingly, liking sex does not make women stupid.”

His iPhone rings: Mr. Brightside. Less than ideal timing. He rejects the call.

“Who was that?” Criston yells over.

“No one,” Aemond responds irritably.

“Your mom?”

“No, Criston.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She wasn’t the one calling, Criston!”

“Okay but I’m just asking, how is she doing like in general…?”

Back at the hotel, Comet Donati is getting ready for their first show in Paris: drinks in glasses, white lines on tables, hair and makeup, cigarettes and pills. You soak in your massive jacuzzi tub and stare up at the ceiling wondering: What am I doing here? What the hell am I still doing here?

But the thought of actually boarding a plane back to Kansas City is terrifying. Never seeing Aegon again? Never seeing Aemond again? Never seeing any of them except on YouTube or Spotify? You don’t want to leave their orbit. You don’t want to zoom off to the other end of the solar system just yet.

You wrap a towel around yourself and mosey out into the bedroom to get dressed. He’s there inspecting the souvenirs on your nightstand, chuckling and pushing them around with his knuckles, wearing a sequined blazer and skin full of ink: not Aegon, not Aemond, not Cregan, but Jace. You squeal, startled, and clutch your towel tighter around yourself. Unfortunately, it’s a very small towel. A very very small towel.

“These are neat,” Jace says. “So I collect tattoos and you collect souvenirs. We have so much in common.”

“We have exceptionally little in common. What do you want?”

He smiles, but never quite kindly. “What do you want?”

“I want you to take Baela to the ballet,” you say. “And I want you to get out of my room now.”

He turns all the way around to face you. He flings your moose snow globe from Stockholm into the air and then catches it, again, again. “Do you really?”

“Yes, Jace.”

And for a minute, or two, or what feels like forever, he doesn’t move. He just stands there staring at you, not moving any closer but not leaving either. Not listening to you. Not hearing you because he doesn’t want to. And you think, your heart hammering in your chest: At what point should I scream for Aegon or Criston? Will they hear me? Will they help me?

“Alright,” Jace says at last. He sets your moose snow globe back down on the nightstand, roughly, with a loud clunk. Then he walks across your room; but before he disappears through the doorway, he throws you a brass room key. Instinctively, you move to catch it, almost dropping your towel in the process. You snatch it back into place just in time. Jace is amused. Perhaps he planned it that way. “Aegon left that lying around,” Jace says, meaning the key. “Maybe you should be more discriminating when choosing who you give it to.”

“I didn’t give it to him. He took it from Criston.”

“Sure he did.” And finally, Jace leaves, as unwelcome as a funnel cloud or a hailstorm.

Aemond spends the concert in the shadows: pacing, taking his notes, ruminating over his many grudges. You spend it in the front row with Baela and Rhaena, wearing the neon yellow gown you found in Reykjavik. You try not to scan the arena for glimpses of Aemond. You fail miserably. Comet opens their concert with an interesting choice, an upbeat cover of Third Eye Blind’s How’s It Going To Be. When you ask Rhaena about it, she says it was Luke’s idea, which in your experience means it was almost certainly Aemond’s, or at least one that he enthusiastically endorsed. Daeron begins, peppy and animated, strutting across the stage:

“I’m only pretty sure that I can’t take anymore

Before you take a swing

I wonder, what are we fighting for?”

Aegon is next, characteristically a little sloppy, a little shaky, yet getting colossal cheers:

“When I say out loud

I want to get out of this

I wonder is there anything

I’m going to miss?”

Cregan’s voice is deep, sensuous, inviting yet with an edge like a blade:

“I wonder how it’s going to be

When you don’t know me?

How’s it going to be

When you’re sure I’m not there?”

Jace is technically the best singer, rich and smooth and nearly always pitch-perfect:

“How’s it going to be

When there’s no one there to talk to?

Between you and me

‘Cause I don’t care…”

And Luke leads the harmony as guitar notes pluck out of the monstrous speakers:

“How’s it going to be?

How’s it going to be?”

Aside from the cover, the setlist is the same as it’s always been since you joined the tour in Rome…but you’re experiencing it in a new way. You are needled by jealously every time you wonder what woman, moment, day, night inspired one of Aemond’s songs; you are nauseous with envy for everyone who’s ever been able to touch him. When they perform A Girl Named After A Car—which had previously always struck you as fun, light, unserious, perhaps satirical—you are consumed by a specific conspiracy theory. After fighting it for half of the song, you Google two words with your iPhone: Shelby car. Sure enough, there’s a vintage Mustang model called a Shelby. It’s gorgeous. It’s perfect for Aemond.

“Great,” you mutter to yourself.

“You okay?” Rhaena asks.

“Yeah,” you reply, slamming your phone back into your purse. “I’m awesome. I’ve literally never been better.”

“You don’t look awesome,” Baela says, smiling. “That’s okay. I’m not so awesome either at the moment.” She takes your hands and starts spinning you around the floor. “We can be hot bitter bitches together.”

It’s tradition for everyone to hang out after the concert, but you’re in no hurry to get to Jace’s suite; you certainly don’t want to be one of the first people to arrive. You don’t want to be alone with him. You walk very slowly, taking a detour to touch up your hair and makeup. As you are wandering a quiet section of the hallway, you observe that Aemond’s door has been left ever so slightly ajar. You peer inside to find it empty…but his notebook is on his nightstand.

No way, you tell yourself. No no no. Huge violation of privacy and respect.

“Oh yeah?” you object, barely audible. “And what would you call what he said to me?”

You go to the notebook and flip it open. Matte black pages slip beneath your fingertips.

“Just the first page,” you swear to yourself. “That’s all. Then I’m leaving.”

There’s a song written there; or, rather, partially written. He’s only worked out a verse and the chorus so far. Your eyes skim over it with lightning-flash quickness, cognizant that you cannot allow yourself to be caught. At the top of the page is one word in pale gleaming ink like pearls, opal, moonstone: Magic.

(Ver1) You walk into the room and I think:

How am I going to get you out of me?

Are you an infection, a lethal connection,

Or are you a fire to burn me clean?

“Nice,” you breathe, with hushed awe you wish you didn’t have.

(Chorus) Are you a witch or are you a spell,

Is loving you gonna be heaven or hell?

Black cats and white salt, ladders and doorframes

I think of magic every time you look my way

There are drunken, giggling voices and the sound of doors opening and closing in the hallway. You scurry out of Aemond’s suite and proceed to Jace’s before anyone thinks to come searching for you.

The room is thick with label executives and hangers-on, smoke and music; Watch by Maisie Peters is playing. She’s a friend of the band. You’re reasonably sure Aegon has hooked up with her, or at least aspires to. Speaking of Aegon, he is currently flitting around with Cregan. He stops briefly to say hi to you, a chilled emerald bottle of Kronenbourg 1664 in one hand, white powder on the other. He’s there and then he’s gone again. He might as well have been slingshotted to the other end of the galaxy. Criston is standing by the open balcony doors and talking to Daeron. Jace is at the bar laughing loudly—obnoxiously, hyena-like—with some mid-twenties guys you don’t recognize. Baela is glaring at him from one of the couches, seated next to Rhaena and Luke. But when she sees you, the rage vanishes from her face. She waves you over rather frantically.

“Look, I know this probably isn’t going to help your situation, but I just wanted to let you know that I am really, really hoping you’ll be willing to stay with us a little longer—”

“Yes! Totally!” Luke seconds, nodding.

“—And it’s not like we’re going to forget about you or prefer her over you or anything—”

“No, definitely not,” Luke says.

“What are you talking about?” you ask them. “Prefer who?”

Rhaena grabs your hand and squeezes it. You follow her eyeline across the room to the opposite couch, a mirage through warm smoke and icy dread. And you think: I should have known. I shouldn’t be surprised. Of course it would be here—in this city of Instagram models and Hallmark-card romance—that she would reappear like the moon growing large again after fading to a sliver, everything back in its rightful place, nature restored to harmony.

Sitting beside Aemond—on his good side, his unscarred side—is Shelby.

[nesiacha]

Reflections on the Comments of Maximilien Robespierre and Manon Roland on Condorcet

Nicolas Condorcet (1743-1794)

A long time ago, I found on the excellent site Les Amis de Robespierre what Madame Roland and Robespierre thought of Condorcet. Here is the link: Les Amis de Robespierre. I will translate the thoughts of the different protagonists from this article and give my personal opinion.

Robespierre's Opinion on Condorcet: Condorcet and Robespierre often attacked each other on the issue of war in 1792. Robespierre said about Condorcet’s articles that he knows "nothing worse and more treacherous." After the arrest of the Girondins, when Condorcet fled, Robespierre apparently said, "This coward Caritat, who, like his friend Brissot, fled national justice, and who no less deserved it," and "The coward Condorcet began to fear the responsibility for his liberty-destroying impostures." A few days after the last statement, Condorcet died, either by suicide, from understandable stress, or, some say, possibly murder (I personally doubt the third hypothesis, but I mention it nonetheless).

In his speech on May 7, 1794, when Robespierre spoke about religion and morality based on republican principles, he released new cutting remarks against Condorcet: "A timid conspirator, despised by all parties," and whose writings are described as "the treacherous jumble of his mercenary rhapsodies." Such violent and cutting words against Condorcet. Yet, on the insult of cowardice, someone else who was initially allied with Robespierre before becoming an enemy would join him in this term.

Manon Roland's Opinion on Condorcet: The woman who was called muse of the Gironde had harsh words for Condorcet in her memoirs. She described him as "weak of heart and health," and added, "A brief note on Condorcet, « whose spirit will always be on the level of the greatest truths, but whose character will never be above fear." She concluded about him, "Such men should be left to write and never employed."

My Reflections: I thought these were heavy words. Of course, Condorcet also said very harsh things, and it must be said that my boundless admiration for him when I was very young (especially since the activist he was for gender equality could only please the future feminist in me) was greatly tempered when I read his equally cutting speech about Robespierre. Speaking of Robespierre in this way: "He talks about God and Providence; he calls himself a friend of the poor and the weak; he gets followed by women and weak-minded people. He gravely receives their adoration and homage, disappears with danger, and is seen only when danger is past. Robespierre is a priest and will never be anything else," I need not say more about what irritated me when he spoke of women this way. Firstly, there were many politically active women who did not follow Robespierre or necessarily the ideals of Condorcet. Should we, for example, speak of Albertine Marat who declared to Alphonse Esquiros, "She then spoke to me about Robespierre with bitterness. 'There was nothing in common,' she added, 'between him and Marat. Had my brother lived, the heads of Danton and Camille Desmoulins would not have fallen.'" Even if I slightly disagree with this part that if Marat had survived, Danton's head would not have fallen (Danton being a very corrupt character and Marat starting to doubt him greatly, especially according to the excellent biography of Danton written by Frédériche Bluche), we are far from admiration for Robespierre from an important revolutionary activist like Marat's sister. And this is just one example among many. We can profoundly disagree with men and women for their political convictions, but what makes feminism and above all gender equality is not imposing a woman's way of life, whether it be thoughts or convictions. I will make a provocation by paraphrasing Voltaire to transpose what I mean: "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." Although personally being cowardly, I would not do it to the death, this exactly reflects what a feminist person should be. And clearly, Condorcet did not respect this part, which makes his conception of gender equality totally imperfect (to put it mildly) by lumping many women together with Robespierre's speech and mocking their political convictions. I feel with him that as long as these women were in agreement with him, it was acceptable, but as soon as they had different political convictions, he cataloged and despised them.

However, do I agree with what Manon Roland and Robespierre said about him? Is everything to be discarded from Condorcet?

Regarding Robespierre, let's not forget that he was an adversary of Condorcet, so it should be taken with a LOT of caution. And let’s not forget that when Robespierre made his speeches, he himself committed acts that can be easily criticized.

Regarding Manon Roland, let’s not forget that Condorcet had positions that were quite difficult to situate within the Girondins and Montagnards split. The group we will call the Girondins did not like to be called that way, and there were more political dissensions between them, and Condorcet did not share all the positions of the Brissotins. So, her words should also be taken with some caution, and she too has things to be blamed for.

But let’s think, would a coward have moderated his criticisms on the moderation of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen and the Constitution of 1791? Because he publicly showed strong criticism.

He was a fervent opponent of the death penalty and stuck to his principles to the end. While some Girondins tried to spare Louis XVI not out of abolitionist conviction or royalism – most were republicans, including some before their time, like Manon Roland – but to not further legitimize the day of August 10, 1792, Condorcet voted against the death penalty out of conviction, whereas Robespierre, who had been an opponent of the death penalty, voted for the death of Louis XVI, rejecting the reprieve. However, he also felt that Louis XVI’s high treason deserved an exemplary punishment, being one of the few to demand that he be condemned to the galleys. He also advocated very early for the rights of Black people. Furthermore, what hastened Condorcet’s end was his condemnation of the arrest of the Brissotins – although his end was accelerated by the fact that he fled, which led to his death sentence in the summer of 1793. To my eyes, a coward would not have condemned the arrest of the Brissotins publicly. He would not have voted in contradiction to his own camp for his convictions (on this point, there is a certain parallel to be made with Robespierre facing the Constituent Assembly of 1789-1791, as Robespierre often intervened against a large majority to make his political ideas and those of so many others triumph).

Of course, I find it unfortunate that in popular culture, Condorcet is often forgiven for his mistakes because he also made mistakes that endangered the French Revolution, particularly the question of war, or what he said about women when he attacked Robespierre. His Panthéonization, for me, is deserved given that he, along with others, advocated generous ideas, and in his biography by historian Antoine Resche, “a public instruction project which, if it was not taken into account under the Revolution, laid the foundations of the school as it has been conceived since the Third Republic, that is, necessarily widespread education, by degrees,” but it is unfortunate that popular culture forget, especially Louis Michel Le Peletier, who proposed a mixed, free, and compulsory primary project defended by Robespierre. When speaking of revolutionaries defending the rights of female citizens, Condorcet is highlighted but not Charles Gilbert Romme, Guyomar, Charlier, and many others. Even more so, we forget revolutionary women like Théroigne de Méricourt, Pauline Léon, Claire Lacombe, Simone Evrard, Albertine Marat, Marie-Anne Babeuf, and many others, as the list is long.

In conclusion, what do I think of Condorcet now that you know that my admiration for him as a teenager has long been greatly tempered and that he is not among my favorite revolutionaries? Well, I still have a fondness for him, a recognition, and a admiration for him like for other revolutionaries, including Manon Roland and Robespierre, although they are not in my top 20 either and not my favorites characters of the frev. They were, fundamentally, complex people caught in a complex period who made, of course , grave and even unforgivable mistakes, but as was said on Tumblr, faultless revolutionaries are quite rare ( (even if there are people in my eyes who are indefensible or rotten like Fouché, Carrier, Tallien, Barras, Charles X, etc.) especially during these during this hellish period of civil war, external and former leaders like Louis XVI who betrayed his people or émigrés who were ready to do anything to destroy the necessary gains of the revolution. . And they are still considered today in a period that is a victim of a black legend that must be constantly combated .

P.S : Forgive me is there was an article Tumblr about what said Manon Roland and Robespierre about Condorcet I checked but I might have missed it

[matchesarelit]

Imagine If You Will...

(Spencer Agnew Drabble)

So... the Mountain mall wasn't the worst place to work, the crowds were anything but chaotic, but tucked away in the info booth you found yourself often able to focus on simple directions and parking validation, for the most part, that is of course until the Dew™ released a new flavor, and distributing samples became part of the job description.

Smosh Masterlist

A/N: Obvs no affiliation with mtn dew

Swinging your feet back and forth, you swiveled in aimless circles, the tepid weather outside mixed with the lack of any seasonal sales had left the mall all but empty. The heavy thud of a box sounded from the other side of the desk, as Samantha dropped the package off, In your months working under these specific fluorescents this box was the first of its kind. Yet the packaging was anything but non-descript; cold neon greens and the little mountain graphics coated not only the cardboard but the bright pink tape that bound it.

Reaching across the bench to pull it over, you sliced it open revealing another layer of wrapping, once again neon green, the tissue paper was nicely tied with a ribbon, yet seemed to be about to burst.

Finally reaching product after sifting through the copious amounts of padding you were somewhat confused by the abundance of cans, 'Is this... our yearly bonus?' your words were muttered somewhat in jest but were laced with confusion nonetheless. Tugging some sort of invoice from her back pocket, your colleague read out 'Sampling Product', her finger forming bunny rabbits over the phrase.

"So we're giving out samples now? I guess its somewhat informative...?" You mused still not truly convinced.

"It does mention it adds a fiver to our hourly rates for the next couple months.' she added with her eyebrows raised.

"Well then" you muttered hands on your hips, suddenly much more impassioned over the news "Better get to it then oh-" As you ferreted through the box you retrieved a few tees; the 'i' information symbol on the front and the Mountain Dew advertising on the back- honestly not too horrendous...if you ignore the familiar neon green of the fabric.

The next day, you'd donned the bright shirt and as you began to stack a little tower of cans, on the smallest of folding tables, you watched the stores slowly open up for the day ahead. The weather was once again mild inside and outside the shopping center, but the day dragged on. You would swear it took hours for the long hand of the clock to shift even slightly, and even worse by the time it hit ten you'd already received four separate complaints about your attire and the shelling of so called 'sugary garbage' ... Cause yes Dorris I chose for this mall to be owned by Mtn Dew, me the person at the info desk at nine AM on a Sunday...

Nevertheless, customer service frustrations aside, the day passed easily enough, a few samples were taken with mixed reactions, a couple four-packs bought, but otherwise it was business as usual.

"Excuse me-uh am I able to try some of this" The man on the other side of the desk was peering through his curls to look between you and the signage sheepishly. Trotting out from the behind information desk to the small folding table with a nod, you grabbed one of the tiny sample cups, filled it and handed it to him as he exchanged a quiet 'thank you'. Expecting the exchange to end there you turned to retreat to your station, only for him to speak up once more catching you in the act...

"So um-'Ultimate'...what flavor is that?" Sizing him up somewhat as you reached for a can you relented, curious of his reaction to the overzealous biography printed on the back of the can, "The description we get from the can is 'Chaos Berries grown on mountain alcoves, watered with traditional dew.'"

He looked back at you somewhat vacantly, seemingly lost in the avant-garde flavor description, so in an attempt to shock his system you countered with a giggle; "But to me it just tastes like lime." After your confession he found his words quite quickly in turn.

"I was just thinking the same thing - the lime thing- not the um- Chaos Berries" His tone was jovial but still immensely hesitant.

"Do you like it? In my experience that's all that really matters," Suddenly feeling it important that the conversation continues you found some words you weren't entirely sure fit together as you stuttered on; "I-Its like I always say; the real chaos berries are the friends we tasted along the way." Okay. So they definitely didn't all go together, at least not in the same analogy, and yet in place of his confused stare he was now looking at you with a warm smile. You thought it must have been the sweetest smile you'd ever received, his eyes were crinkled slightly on the edges in good natured amusement and overall it left nothing for you to do but return it as best you could.

"Well um thank you, I- should um-" He motioned to a random store as he waved goodbye briefly before starting off after a solid minute of silence between the pair of you. You waved to him briefly before retreating to your seat to find a small queue in front of your desk waiting for assistance. Quickly returning to work with a fresh warmth in your cheeks, you tried your best to focus on the task at hand for the hours to come.

[iznsfw]

Any plans for Eunbi smut? Or Kkura? Or Hyewon?? Lots of love for iznsfw! ❤️❤️❤️

Mon Chef-D'oeuvre

IZ Days of Christmas: Day 3 - Kang Hyewon

IZ*ONE's Kang Hyewon x Male Reader Smut

4235 words

Categories: biography-style fic, muse!Hyewon, haunted_artist!Reader, cunnilingus, cockwarming, riding

T/W: suicide, cancer/sickness, self-deprecating thoughts

The smut parts are quite short, but I was leaning on a more emotional side of the story, so I apologize if it is not fulfilling.

MASTERPIECE AND MADNESS: A LOOK INTO THE LIFE OF KANG SEUNGWOON, THE MOURNFUL ARTIST

Excerpts from page 99-102

[...] Grief was a major theme in Kang’s paintings. In Secret Story of the Swan (figure 5.5), created in 1916 hung in the Louvre in 1920, he takes a twist on the classic children’s story of The Ugly Duckling. He depicts the mother of the duckling as a rejected, brutalized victim at the hands of her husband. When asked about how he took the harsh criticism from the public for this controversial artwork by the Korea Times, he stated: “There is no right or wrong way to tell a story [...] it is fiction, it does not matter. All of life is a fictional construct. I say the world was simply not prepared for it.”

He presented this artwork in muted colors as he did not have formal materials until his graduation from the Iz School of Creative Art in November 1917. But it is safe to say the painting presented the emotions as much as any vibrant colors could, although it was met by praise and critical acclaim as late as the birth of the twenty-first century.

Another artwork of his in the category of grief is Winter Poem (see Figure 5.6), made shortly after his muse and wife, Kang Hyewon, passed.

Kang first met her at the university from which he took art and graduated at the top of the class. She was described as an “innocent girl with a pure face”. Quoted from Kang from his journals, which were released to the public in 2014: “She had the beauty of an angel. I think she really was an angel. I felt that I did not deserve her.”

-

You graduated at the top of your class, with honors and awards for everything you have ever painted in school. They hung your artworks around and gladly presented them to the wealthy visitors looking to enroll their children in there, as if to say, "This is what your child can make if you enter them in our school." They all saw you as the best painter in class, the one with instinctive and natural talent that comes to you as easily as the wind.

So, why are you so sad?

The joy of these moments have lost their effect on you. Maybe it is because you are growing up. As one grows up, things slowly lose meaning. Birthdays are not as exciting as they used to be, and even if the events were big things such as this: your graduation, not one smile paints itself on your sullen face.

Your mother once told you that all things were temporary. “Gifts, birthdays, parties…” she had listed out for you the examples thoughtfully. “They’re all temporary just like we are. So you have to enjoy them while you can.” But you cannot take her advice, and now, you feel as if you have disappointed her.

The tears drop despite your efforts to remain a stoic face. But what is done is done. All you have to do is to go home with your diploma in hand, and probably encase it with glass. It will be a good thing to add to your resume as well as the credentials you list when people commission you. If, and only if, there is a slim possibility anyone would want you to make them something. You have never been the best artist out there, although you have strived to be.

“Seungwoon-ah!” Turn to the direction you hear the yell from to meet the happy face of Choi Yena. She is one of your fellow honor graduates. Her smile is wide as she asks you, “Are you coming to the grad party tonight?”

Choi Yena is a social butterfly. She can make friends with simply the use of her smile, adding to the fact that she is so naturally cheerful. Nothing can get to her. Sometimes, you wish you were born in her shoes, to have the luxury to be so effortlessly happy.

“I’ll pass,” you tell her. She was kind enough to invite you, the weird outcast, but you will have to turn her offer down. You are not good at big events. You either stutter too much or remain without a plus one. You have learned over the years to save yourself from your own embarrassment. “Congratulations, though!”

“You, too!” Yena beams. The anxious part of your heart tells you that the beam is caused by the fact that you are not going. The rational part tells you, of course, the rational side to the story: Yena is a bubbly girl. She will smile at anything, even if you present her the ugliest thing in the world. But you decide to believe the former, anyway. You always do.

You go away from all of the crowds. They are becoming too much for you. Everyone is jumping and screaming as a famous singer takes the stage and sings a song everyone is obsessed over. You recognize the song but cannot remember its title, but you know it is something along the lines of “I’m gonna make it smile, smile, smile away.” Something like that. You would have liked to ponder over it more, but right now, all you want to do is go home. Probably heat a hot chocolate and read a book before sleeping. It’s getting late, anyway.

You turn the curve to go to the parking spaces. Everything is jammed; every brand of vehicle in existence is cramped in the small, ugly space your university reserves for events like these. All the money in the world from profiting off of the tuition fees and they still cannot invest in bigger hectares. How pathetic.

The richer kids own the Ferraris parked cleanly in the corner, while yours is an old truck your dad used to drive around. You yearn for a better car like those; yours is almost broken down due to the engine, and it isn’t exactly a pretty sight. But you mustn’t let your jealousy overtake you. It is a terrible habit not too many people recognize.

And that is when you see her.

You are rarely starstruck. Models come into your classrooms everyday as references for your art. A lot of them enter in the nude, except for underwear. However, none of them had an effect on you like she did.

She is the girl standing near your car, observing its structure and wheels. She is dressed casually, despite the occasion. A lit cigarette hangs from between her full, pink lips. Her arms form two curves near her hips’. And in that moment, you forget all about what you said negatively about love at first sight. You swear you haven’t felt so stupidly in love.

She takes art classes on the side in the summer. She comes there sometimes, and you see her paint dutifully, pencil tucked behind her ear, to produce a pretty artwork. She rarely laughs nor smiles, but when she does, every person in the room is captured by the neck, including you.

She is the most beautiful girl in the world. And she introduces herself to you as Kang Hyewon.

You knew you were done for when you saw that smirk.

-

Kang Hyewon was born in Busan and resided there until she was thirteen years old. From then on, she moved to Seoul and took art classes while pursuing photography at the same university Seungwoon graduated from. They met after his graduation, and began dating casually after two months. Historians doubt this, saying that Seungwoon was a shy man and would have taken longer to charm her, but the journals are concrete evidence that support the widely accepted timeline. They married on 4 July 1922, on Hyewon's twenty-third birthday.

She inspired Seungwoon’s decision to make his first attempt at photography. His first photos consisted of Hyewon herself. According to Dr. Lee’s book on Han Seungwoon and his muses over the years, he “did not see why Hyewon was the photographer rather than the model herself; she was very easy on the eyes.”

Some of Kang’s photographs of Hyewon are shown below:

Contemplation, 1919

A Snack to Go By, 1920

A Camera for the camera, 1922

Seungwoon was not only skilled in painting, but also mathematics, geometry, and science. So it was not long until he had been talented in the field of photography as well. While Hyewon taught him the rules and aspects of it, he gave her advice on her drawings. She inspired and modelled for his one of his last paintings of her: Taste. The story behind the title of the painting or the artwork itself is unknown.

-

She has been your muse from the moment you first saw her.

Of course, the first thing that can be attributed to her being your muse is her undeniable beauty. It is kind of ridiculous how pretty Kang Hyewon is. Her features are soft, yet full: doe eyes, paired with two full lips, and a perfectly shaped nose that can make her look like a lovingly-carved statue if you used your gray paint on her. She looks good in anything you request her to wear, anything she wears when she enters your studio with a new inquiry about art. Any photograph taken of her comes out prettily. She is just naturally photogenic, naturally beautiful.

She is also naturally kind. You are the moody one in the pair, always grumping about a new day without a cup of coffee to start it. But Hyewon… Hyewon is patient. You try not to be too much for her, with the amount of space your art and materials take and all, yet she always tells you it is okay. It is fine, she says, because she knows you more than anyone and loves you more than anyone. She knows exactly what to make you calm down after a disappointed commissioner, or a day where things are simply too gloomy for you to go on. And you truly do not want to say it out loud in fears of being ridiculed, but you cannot live without her. She is your solace, and if, by any cursed chance, she disappears from this world, you would join her. You would challenge death to return her to you and laugh in its skull face. You would do anything, just to be by her side forever.

You never exaggerate except in paintings. You would honestly do all things those things for Hyewon if needed. You are a blessed man for being able to have her take your last name as her own, live in the same home as her and have her as your muse.

"These are gorgeous," she says. Hyewon looked around your studio, observing the hues and the dues, the bright and the dull. A lot of your drafts have filled the room, and you are a little embarrassed to have your wife look at them.

"You are far more gorgeous than any of them. There is a reason why people like my paintings of you more."

"My husband is so charming," says Hyewon, throwing you a sweet smile. It is only semi-sarcastic, and it looks pretty with her clothes for this shoot. She is wearing your blue polo under a white vest, along with two gray socks that are almost thigh-high. Her visuals affect you a little too much today, but you try to ignore it. Focus on applying the curves of her face on your semi-finished canvas. You have added stripes of brown to show the strands of Hyewon's hair, and alternated between white and light blue to draw her polo.

"How can I not be when you look so..."

Go over Hyewon's whole look and you get even more worked up. Her hair is styled into two buns, while her thighs are generously shown by the skirt that folds around them. Her eyes are wide and curious as she waits for you to continue. But she knows what you are going to say anyway. She is not as innocent as she used to be, being your muse and all.

She spreads her legs a little wider. "Why don't you come and charm me even more?"

Your palette and brush drop to the ground. Suddenly, your arms around Hyewon and you are diligently kissing her. Her lips always taste of sweetness. You can never go without her.

Hyewon cannot go without you either. Her firm kisses and caresses all over the sides of your head and body just show that if you love her, she loves you more. She loves your artwork and your talent and the sleepy face you have as you get up in the morning. She loves your diligence and your kisses and the taut bulge that rubs against her core. She loves you, and after you put her on one of your sturdier desks, you are determined to show that your adoration for her is greater.

Which is why you are glad to tear the vest off of her. She looks hotter in the polo alone, yet you take that one off as well. Her bare, beautiful breasts are presented to you. The brush you pick up once the idea entered your mind dances along their soft mountains. Hyewon lets out a soft whimper. Her sensitivity is at a great height at which she is rendered helpless; she does not know what to do without moaning.

"God, I love you, Hyem," you say breathily.

"Sounds like you're talking to my tits rather than me," laughs Hyewon.

"Fine. I love you." Kiss her again and again. She giggles in between moans. Start from her forehead and end on her breasts. Lick a stripe on their nipples, and squeeze them happily in your hands. "I love you more than anything."

You mean it. You mean it with every pump of blood your heart creates, with every bit of your troubled soul.

Hyewon's thighs shudder as the brush tickles and caresses them. You run kisses along each trail your brush has swiped upon. But soon you are kissing something else, and Hyewon is reduced to moans.

The only clue at what you are doing is her underwear that you have thrown carelessly near the doorway.

"Oh my god, hon," whispers Hyewon, trying to keep a straight face. She raises her head out of view with her eyes closed and a firm bite on her lower lip. "You always eat me so well."

Hyewon loves being eaten out. It is such a divine experience for her. Every session is like the first, when she was particularly delicate and inexperienced. That is why the first suck already brings forth a rush of wetness and her thighs squirm on the sides of your head.

Hyewon remains a beauty, even in her unruly state. Her soft moans are like comforting tunes, motivating even. They coax you to take her harder—lap a teasing tongue up between her folds and wiggle it around, give smacks on her ass above the blue skirt, and suck the pretty nub with more diligence. Hyewon's legs never stop their quivering, and her fingers never stop trying to push you away and keep you licking her. The onslaught of stimulation has her breathless; how does it still feel so new and good?

You spread her legs far apart. Afterwards, stop the thrust of your tongue and go with offering sharp laps on her clitoris. It pulses with need, and so does Hyewon's heart, which beats so fast against her chest that she feels weak. But you are too good at this. She can do nothing but moan and let you fire blunt flicks at her erogenous zone.

"Hmnn... hah! Oh my god, baby!"

She herself is surprised by how early she came. But it is too late; your tongue is already delved deep inside her spasming core, catching the continuous leak of feminine orgasm. And it still feels so good. Sparks keep her on the edge of the desk and her toes curl tightly in response to her rough climax.

Continue the waves of your tongue while you keep her closely to your lips. You are determined to take advantage of the heightened sensitivity of her orgasm and make her feel even more good. You kiss her clit as if it were her own full lips. Give it open-mouthed smooches. By now, Hyewon's moans, which are usually soft and almost silent, have grown and spread inside the studio like a wildfire. Her hips are a force to be reckoned with, bucking against your mouth in search for more and pushing its center into your face. It is no problem for you; you are glad to give more.

You would give anything, in fact, just to see your wife's beautiful and blissful face.

-

Seungwoon took many photographs: of birds, nature, and sometimes his paintings. Many of these were formally released, yet the photos of his wife, although many, were not as abundantly shown to people. He took many pictures of her and kept a large amount for himself. He explained that he felt as if the public did not deserve to see "another side" of Hyewon. Hyewon also said that she would like to keep it that way.

His penultimate photograph of her that we know of is one wherein she reads her books to him. He entitled it A timely read [...]

-

Hyewon's thighs are snug in your lap, yet your cock rather explores in the hole in between them. Its pleasure tells and makes you bounce your own thigh up and down, creating a fulfilling process of her hole squeezing onto your shaft as you enter and exit.

Her fingers lose their assured squeeze on the book. "H-hah, you really aren't going to make this easy for me, are you?" she asks in between moans.

Shake your head; of course not. With her slick entrance ready for the taking, you have all day to plug yourself inside of her.

"Just keep reading, Hyewon-ah," you tell her, sweetly nibbling on her earlobe. She whimpers quietly, but does as you say.

Your thigh rises and falls to let your cock probe further inside her. Her tight, sweet body writhes with each bounce, yet she keeps on reading. She is your good girl, after all. Your muse.

But muses are not as desperate for you as she is. No muse drops to her knees and begs for "just one touch, please," say Hyewon with fearful eyes. "Just this time."

Her breast is fit for pearls /

Hyewon opens her mouth to read once more. However, your hand finds her breast before she can get a word out. From there, she can only make soft, whimpery sounds. Her chirps of pleasure are as pleasant as any songbirds. You love Hyewon's voice. She sings softly round the house, smiling giddily when you catch her, yet she claims that she is as never as good as Jo Yuri, the famous singer at the time. But that doesn't matter to you. You love Hyewon's voice.

Most of all, you love Hyewon.

But I was not a "Diver"— /

It does not matter anyway into her neck. Several counts of delicate cries leave her full lips. But Hyewon loves it. She loves being yours. She loves the way you make her feel, especially with the sword you unsheathe and sheathe again in the depths of her core, as if you are not certain if you should keep it inside or not. She likes it better inside her anyway.

Her brow is fit for pearls /

But I have not a crest.

Hyewon leans back in your shoulder. Kiss her beaded brow lovingly. She has stopped trying to read. It is a setup challenge anyway, designed to make her fail. What, with your cock's rainy adventures in between her wet folds, it was not a fair game from the beginning. But she is your loser, and because you love her, you would give her the prize anyway.

Your lips and Hyewon's collide. Hers are full and soft; there is a reason why you love it when she drops to her knees for you. Both carnal pleasures are hard to choose from, but you'd rather kiss her till you are out of breath than have her mouth somewhere else.

She hums a song of bliss, and you fashion yours with a grunt. Her thighs shake above your lap. Your fingers catch the release she makes. It floods on your hand; Hyewon blushes at your touch lingering on her vagina, and cums even more. It is a flood that you do not mind having assault you.

Because...

Her heart is fit for home /

Not one of your artworks can live up to her undeniable beauty. A studio full of the world's greatest paintings can easily be beaten by her. She is one created with duty and love—a soft yet intimate masterpiece, whose colors you make yourself comfortable in, even as she rests your head on your heart and closes her eyes.

I—a sparrow—build there

Sweet of twigs and twine

My perennial nest.

The little bird sleeps.

-

[...] while his last photograph of her is given the name The last stroll in the yards of life.

-

You do not want to live anymore.

It is as simple as that. Death is something that you would not refuse after the inevitable death she will have to take on. In fact, you welcome it. You urge it to come early despite your youthful age. You challenge it, even. You spit in the face of death and tell him to come get a piece of you.

Before you know it, you are crying again. Your tears blot what was supposed to be a masterpiece, making the colors drip down unpleasantly the canvas into one, big, rainbow mess. But your current state is a bigger mess than your artwork, and so is your life. Your wife will soon leave you, and just thinking about it makes you want to leave first.

If only you did not love her so much. If you didn't, it would not be this hard for the two of you.

"Oh, honey."

Her voice is as sweet as the nickname, but it does not pacify you. Not when you know the arms bound around your quivering form will soon melt away. Not when the scent from her hair and neck directly under your nose will leave along with her, only letting behind few sprays throughout rooms that will drive you crazy for days on end.

And she is so fucking pretty that it hurts.

"Hey," she tells you softly, with a smile that betrays the fear that she feels as well. Her brown sweater is beautiful; it matches the colors of the crops and grass around you. Hyewon truly looks like the love of your life. "It's okay. I'm still here. I haven't gone anywhere yet."

Yet. The word hangs in your mind like a noose. You want to take its rounded syllable ropes and execute yourself with them.

"You look so beautiful, Hyewon," you say, wrapping your arms around her like she does. "I love you so much."

"I love you, too. I love you, too."

You know you sound pathetic, but you go on with it anyway. There is little time left in the hourglass, and each grain of sand counts. "C-can you promise me something?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"P-promise me that you will try to hold on for as long as you can. I—I know it sounds selfish, and it is, but I can't see a life without you, Hyewon. I just can't. I truly think I'll die without you."

Hyewon's eyes are blurred with tears now, just like you. She hates knowing that she can do nothing about you feeling terrible about her dying. She hates knowing that you have felt this way from the moment you knew about her death.

She herself is still not ready for it. She does not know when she will be. Hyewon will always have to look over her shoulder in the afterlife, making sure that you do not follow.

"I promise," she says quietly. She closes her eyes, takes in a deep breath, and exhales through her nose. "I promise with all my heart."

-

Kang Hyewon died on December 23rd, 1924. She succumbed to cancer the night before Seungwoon's first exhibition. It can be deduced that Seungwoon called off his exhibition to mourn his wife and have time for himself. He did not set a date for the day on which the exhibition was supposedly postponed to.

After a week, he shot himself in his studio and died alone. In his suicide note, he asked that he be buried next to his wife and his paintings are formally taken by the university. In 1945, the university showcased his paintings—the famous, the lesser known, finished and unfinished—in one of its biggest exhibitions.

It is safe to say that Kang Seungwoon's artwork maintains its provision of inspiration to people today. People now talk about his paintings, love, and his tragic death as a source of reassurance and motivation. His famous quote still makes its rounds today: "There is no sculpture or painting that has lived up to the chef-d'oeuvre of true love."

[villainsrph]

004. TRUE LOVE. — $7. adjustable carrd template. made with single muse blogs in mind, but is fully customizable and includes a template paragraph for a muses list. pages included are home, rules, about, verses, & mains. about page features space for stats and biography. home page features space for a small description.

fairly easy to edit, but does require knowledge of adjusting multiple containers colors, highlight text colors, etc. small tutorial included inside with editing notes/tips. multiple spots for quotes/extra info either below or above buttons, and optional images. each page includes spots for two images. does not require pro lite.

- do not claim as your own or redistribute. personal use only. - adjust and edit as needed! (adding or removing containers and sections, fonts, colors, etc.) please do not remove or move credit! as long as there's credit, please feel free to edit / customize as desired! - if you're thinking of signing up for or upgrading your carrd account, consider using my code VRPH ! - demo available & purchase here !

I'm open to kind and constructive feedback! please reach out with any questions or suggestions for future templates, things I can do better, etc! if there's any problems with purchasing or editing, don't hesitate to message me.  thank you so much !

interested in custom work or custom graphics for this template? I offer commissions !

[spell-bloom]

chaaostheory's oh hey? whatup? theme with my edits

Okay so to preface, I know fuck all about coding, but with a little help of W3Schools and Stack Overflow I was able to achieve what I wanted. If you have any issues, please don't hesitate to dm/ask me. All credits for this wonderful code goes to @chaaostheory

Features:

fontawesome 5.1 icons

hint.css tooltips 

scrollable biography section along with two other small boxes

scrollable stat box

six links

a traits box with space for six traits

a tv tropes box with space for nine tropes

side statics for development, availability, etc. 

My Edits:

locked the character selection tab to not follow when you scroll down the screen

allowed the character selection tab to scroll when you have many muses

changed the titles for the sorting hat and wand info boxes for personal preference.

dark version for people who have light sensitivity

hovering over the first character box has the pop up below instead of above

Stuff to Remember:

when adding new characters, be sure to change the number or else the code will break

when editing the bio and extra info boxes, be sure to use paragraph breaks

the side statics follow when you scroll down the scren, fixing it completely messed up the code

CODES: Dark version / Light version

THIS HAS JAVASCRIPT

[chaotic-history]

The Nouvelle Biographie Générale's article on Villette, 1866

Because my sleep-deprived brain decided last night that translating Villette things was clearly my top priority. Footnotes like this (1) are original; the ones like this ¹ are added by me.

VILLETTE (Charles, marquis DE), born December 4, 1736, in Paris, where he died on July 9, 1793. His father, treasurer extraordinary of war, left him a 150,000 livre pension; his mother was popular for her wit and her beauty: he therefore had an easy path in the world. After having gone on a handful of campaigns, he returned to Paris (1763) with the rank of quartermaster general of the cavalry [maréchal général des logis de la cavalerie]. He was imprisoned, for what reason we don’t know¹, in the Strasbourg citadel; as soon as he had left at the end of six months, he went to Ferney to seek out Voltaire, who had been a friend of his mother. ‘I currently have at home with me to cheer me up’, wrote Voltaire, ‘a young M. de Villette, who knows all the verses that have ever been written, and who writes them himself, who sings, who does impressions of other people quite amusingly, who tells stories, who is a pantomime, who would delight even the inhabitants of this sad Geneva’². With the support of the philosophe, whom he didn’t hesitate to call his father, Villette threw himself into the literary world, wrote many verses, competed for prizes from the Académie Française which he didn’t win, and above all sang in every tone praises of Voltaire, who reciprocated doubly by calling him the French Tibullus. Displaying with effrontery his taste for unnatural vices, as was attested to by his contemporaries, it was thought that he would not marry, until he married a person equally distinguished by her virtues and by her amiable qualities in the Ferney chapel in 1777, and he thus became, according to a rueful joke of the patriarch of Ferney, a doctor in utroque³. He had with her a son, whom he had baptised in 1792 under the name of Voltaire-Villette. This marriage did not prevent him from returning to his vicious habits, nor from engaging in scandalous intrigues with fashionable women, among whom were Mlles Arnould et Raucourt. At the time of the revolution, Villette drafted the cahiers du bailliage for Sentis, in which he spoke warmly of the new principles, and he collaborated on the Chronique de Paris. Named deputy of Oise for the National Convention (1792), he protested strongly against the September massacres, and voted, in the trial of Louis XVI, for his imprisonment [rather than his execution]. He succumbed a few months later to a languishing illness. He owned the hôtel where Voltaire lived in Paris, on the quai which today bears his name; he acquired the château de Ferney and preserved the heart of his protector (1) in an urn bearing this inscription:

His spirit is everywhere and his heart is here.

Of a very slim literary talent, Villette was truly what Mme du Deffand called him: ‘a comic character’⁴. The wits of the time did not spare him; people laughed especially at his belief that he could share in Voltaire’s fame, and this epigram ran for a long time throughout Paris:

Little Villette, it is in vain

That you aspire to glory;

You will never be anything but a dwarf

Who plays a giant on the comic stage.

However, he was kind, devoted to his friends, and during the revolution he showed real courage in standing firm in his beliefs against the prejudices of the nobility and against revolutionary excesses. Palissot assures us that Villette’s best works should be attributed to Gugeland, his secretary. Be that as it may, these are the works which he had printed: Éloge de Henri IV; Paris, 1770, in-4°; Éloges Historiques de Charles V et de Henri IV; Amsterdam (Paris), 1772, in-4°; La Patroclée, ou Commencement du Seizième Chant de l’Iliade, Traduction Littérale en Vers; Paris, 1778, in-8°: Palissot attributes this to Voltaire; various pieces in the Almanach des Muses, reprinted in Œuvres de Boufflers et de Villette; London (Paris), 1782, in-18; Œuvres du Marquis de Villette; London and Paris, 1784, in-12, and 1786, in-16; Edinburgh and Paris, 1788, in-8°: in general, his Lettres contain interesting anecdotes. Between 1784 and 1792, Villette presented eight operas to the Académie Royale de Musique, which seem to have been neither put on nor succesful.

(1) This relic, preserved by his son, was given in 1864 to the government, which had it placed in one of the rooms of the Bibliothèque Impériale [now the Bibliothèque Nationale de France].

¹Like pretended father, like son, it was for causing a stir by planning to duel a lieutenant-colonel whom he had publicly insulted, according to Grimm’s correspondence.

²Voltaire to the comte d’Argental, February 27, 1765

³In utroque jure, meaning a doctor of both civil and ecclesiastical law, ie., if Villette gets married he will have sex with women as well as with men. Voltaire uses the term in this way in a letter to Villette from June 7, 1765.

⁴Mme du Deffand to Horace Walpole, February 12, 1775

[ravarui]

New Muse added (Request only):

Morzan from the book series Inheritance Cycle

Biography of him can be found here Temporary FC is S.ebastian S.tan.

[redemptionmade]

so i've added kyle, stan, kenny + marjorine to my blog and i intend to write up a biography for all of them + my other muses in the next few days hopefully? you'll be seeing half finished bios for a lot of them in the upcoming weeks days

[multi-royalty]

NEW MUSE : ASPEN WINTER

Aspen is a the 100 original character created by me, more info being added below to be added to my carrd later!

BIOGRAPHY:

Aspen is a member of Lexa's Trikru, she works closely with the commander herself and has done so since Lexa had ascended, the two had been close when growing up among the clan, however there had been many attempts to keep the separated due to Lexa's heritage (the night blood). Both of Aspen's parents are dead, killed by the mountain men at mount weather during failed reaper transformations when she was fourteen years old. She was always a smart and outgoing child, and had been no stranger to the mountain men attacks. They had risen drastically during her generation and many of her clan had been lost to the reapers. Aspen had always excelled in hunting and combat despite her parents not always supporting the 'blood must have blood' ideology, Aspen knew that in order to be truly seen by the clan that she'd need to support in ways that stood out and were recognisable.

Trikru vs Skaikru - the alliance:

Despite Lexa's willingness to put her trust into Clarke and Skaikru itself, Aspen stayed quiet on opposing opinion. She took a lot longer to convince that Skaikru came in peace, merely wanting to survive on the lands that were brand new to them. Aspen silently thrived on order and communication so when a new clan had quite literally fallen from the sky, this was something that had her wires crossing. Eventually however, Aspen does come around and supports the idea of an alliance with skaikru, she admired their technology and aspired to learn more for hersef.

BASIC INFO:

Full Name: Aspen Winter Age: 22 Date of birth: 26th November 2129 Gender and Pronouns: Female / she / her Face Claim: jennifer lawrence Appearance: Long brown wavy hair and blue eyes Height: 5'9 Species: Human (grounder) Occupation: defender of the commander Sexuality: demisexual

VERSES:

are yet to come but will be written out on my carrd. For now she is to remain within the 100 universe and I shall see on branching out in the future!

[eyeknowmayhem]

// eyeknowmayhem patch notes as of 9/8/2024

all biographies now link to a respective tumblr page (formatting still may be wonky, i'm not good with html)

added 4 new muses (biographies+tags to be written)

guest muses now have their own page on the carrd

made a new promo

made a new pinned post

removed herobrine

[lasplaga]

「𝔖」 I updated my dynamics page & reformed it into a full BYF dynamics page to vet writers which are fundamentally incompatible. ( Not out of malice, I'm just not comfortable writing or bending on certain things. I also want writers to be explicitly aware ahead of time in the case of triggers. At the end of the day I would like this hobby to be enjoyable for me. ) The link is HERE if you want to take a gander for yourself, but I'll be including the most prominent changes under the read-more. Some of it might be a little sensitive, so be advised. Regardless, I'm sure, or hoping, that my current followers have read the page before I updated it just now.

Last thing to note is that I added a weaknesses portion to his power list, scroll PAST his biography to see it, on the off-chance people were curious what exactly he is vulnerable to in case they wanted to use them for interactions. That's all, take care!

The most prominent change is that I won't EVER entertain Ramon X Osmund as a romantic pairing upon this blog. I won't be going out of my way to harass users who ship & write this ( Nor will I post URL's / socials, don't ask! ), but nothing in canon suggests Osmund exhibits pedophilic or incestual tendencies. Adoptive family is still family & Osmund has canonically raised Ramon before he was 8 years old. I feel that Lord Saddler ( & Los Iluminados by extension ) is ridiculously evil enough as is, so I find this dynamic wholly unnecessary & squicking for me. ( You don't need to voice your opinion about the ship in the replies, I'm just establishing boundaries. ) Continuing, other Canon's or OC's that suggest or include in their biography that Osmund ( or his religion ) exhibits pedophilic or incestual behavior will also be avoided as well. It's just not compatible & personally uncomfortable for me when nothing in canon even remotely suggests it.

I also included a section on triggering dynamics you should expect that is more or less seen in canon, mostly to cover my own ass & so people are WELL AWARE whether they want to interact with this character or not. I also included a link to my character analysis post of their sexually perverted behavior, which has been vastly expanded with links to the source materials. You can find it HERE if you don't feel like scrolling.

In terms of new mutuals interacting the first time without plotting at all beforehand, I had to think up something that was plausible as Osmund is an isolationist & hardly travels. So, from now on, I will assume 99% of the time that your muse approaches the village first & is overwhelmed by an ambush. If your muse is an outsider & it was not plotted beforehand they were permitted entry, their welcome will be treated VERY poorly. Though they do not recklessly kill outsiders, they will first be kidnapped & held captive before being given fair judgement. Judgment does not necessarily equal death. This welcomes opportunity for a wide variety of conflict & resolutions, it is VERY in character, so I feel that it works fine.

The last two are separated under the bar as they pertain to the lore of Las Plagas. I am a firm believer that antagonists should be represented appropriately ( no matter how terrible ). Also, that writers should be consciously aware of what the bioweapon represents before picking them, careful to tag triggers, not force interactions, etc., & that if crucial elements are removed it is a bastardization & / or woobifying the villain, which I don't do here. The bioweapon itself represents fascism, various forms of oppression & even sexual violence --- even if they preach peace. Removing that completely for aesthetic purposes I think is a disservice to the source material. If you personally don't like it, that's fine, at that point I would suggest just going with Mold as they also utilize Nematodes / Worms, without the assault aspect. But if you choose to write otherwise with Las Plagas, then our portrayals simply won't match.

Starting off, Las Plagas CC's or OC's that do not include elements of mind control & / or they are entirely free of mind control, have escaped Valdelobos / Kijuju but maintained their infection whilst living a normal human life, etc. --- will be fundamentally incompatible as I abide closely to the lore. Osmund is the highest hierarchy of the caste & cannot be influenced by lower castes, but still regresses. Lower castes are subject to Osmund's influence on a spectrum. Las Plagas without elements of mental / bodily domination is lore-breaking & just does not interest me, I'm sorry if this is inconvenient for any of my current mutuals ( but I don't think it is ).

You are fine to portray your mutant as you deem fit, but Osmund’s faith would not support prejudice, xenophobia, or racism towards hosts belonging to Type-2, Type-3, or Type-4. All Plagas species function under the same caste system & under the same hivemind. They desire to bridge relationships between all nations & creeds. It would fundamentally go against his remake characterization to support hatred towards hosts of different plaga strains. If your mutant exhibits this type of bigotry, they will be called out for such, if not worse.

Lastly, Their God is incorporeal & suggested to have cosmic desires before dying upon Earth, & I will never depict he worships a different deity / person in his main verse that is not himself / another Prophet. Only Osmund Saddler is confirmed to be the last surviving in possession of a Dominant Plaga. "The Amber" IS NOT CONFIRMED to be stronger than him, only speculated without firm evidence, & they possess the same abilities / are the same species.

[villainmade]

okay some quick psas since i've gotten a few new followers recently

memes & threads. i don't really enforce any limits on memes or threads. you're welcome to send me as many memes as you'd like at any time!! it may take me some time to get to all of them, but i like having choices to fall back on depending on my mood, and it's always a good way to get some interactions going. same thing goes for threads. clearly i have no problems with having multiple threads with one person, it's actually very helpful and allows me to still write with people even if i'm not feeling a particular thread/muse at that moment

biographies. once upon a time, i had every intention of writing up bios for canon muses but i think it's time to admit defeat lmfao. that being said, i am happy to answer any questions about canon muses that you may not be familiar with if need be. i'm also adding important headcanons and info to individual muse pages so that people are aware of how i write those muses, any canon divergences, etc.

ships. i love writing ships of any variety, and i'm always open to discussing and exploring new ships. that being said, i only ship based on chemistry and comfortability and i would prefer to have written together a bit to get a feel for anything ahead of time. if it works out, exciting!! if not, please don't try to force a ship on me

[villainsrph]

003. PURE PARAGON — $7. adjustable carrd template. made with multi muse blogs in mind, but can easily be adjusted to fit a single muse blog. pages included are home, rules, mains, muses, and optional dossier. dossier page features space for stats, biography, verses, and headcanons.

fairly easy to edit, but does require moving and adjusting multiple containers, colors, etc. multiple spots for optional quotes/extra info, and optional images with recommended sizes labeled. requires pro lite or higher due to element limit !

- do not claim as your own or redistribute. personal use only. - adjust and edit as needed! (adding or removing containers and sections, fonts, colors, etc.) please do not remove credit! as long as there's credit, please feel free to edit / customize as desired! - if you're thinking of signing up for or upgrading your carrd account, consider using my code VRPH ! - demo available & purchase here !

shout out to the anon on a poll last year who asked for a carrd template with space for a lot of multi muse info — here you go! thank you for the suggestion !

as I'm getting the hand of templates, I'm open to kind and constructive feedback! please reach out with any questions or suggestions for future templates! if there's any problems with purchasing or editing, don't hesitate to message me.  thank you so much !

interested in custom work or custom graphics for this template? I offer commissions !

[shimmerbeasts]

So, I did some updating on muse bio page. For one, I decided to bump Silco down from primary muse to secondary muse. Because I realised a primary muse for me is someone, whose mindset, I can enter more or less at the drop of a hat. And Silco, as much as I love him, requires a lot of brain power to get right. Obviously, that does not mean you shouldn't write with this character. I welcome plots for Mister Paranoid, as I jokingly call him.

Outside of that, I also finally added Khaevis and Mizora to my muse list. I have not yet made their biography pages because I have some work. I also gave them a different category as opposed to League of Legends because they are not from League. Instead, I made a Fantasy category, which happens to have Damsel and Baldur's Gate 3 in brackets behind that. I also realised how fortunate I am that Shimmerbeasts works for League and Fantasy. I love my URL and am glad I do not need to change it.

[fcrox]

The witch had a determination unlike most; a will to walk whatever path she had chosen and excel at it. Whatever footprints she would leave behind, she would allow nothing and no one to doubt her. Not even herself.

✧ threads ✧ about ✧ headcanon ✧ the mail ✧ ✧ aesthetics ✧ musings ✧ connections ✧ mirror ✧

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME: Leta Blanche Rosier

ALIAS/NICKNAME: Lele (if you'd like to cease existing), Leets (her brother and she hates it)

AGE: Twenty Eight

BIRTH DATE: April 1st, 1951

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

AFFILIATION: Neutral (officially), Death Eater siding (truthfully)

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis-Woman. She/her

CURRENT LIVING CONDITIONS: Manor in Hatfield, England

OTHER LIVING CONDITIONS: Manor in Burgundy, France

OCCUPATION: Designer and Seamstress at Madam Malkin's

PETS: Athena (snow owl), Salt & Pepper (burmese cats)

WAND: Ebony wood, dragon heartstring core, 12" and slightly springy flexibility

PATRONUS: Black Mare

BOGGART: Her parents

AMORTENTIA: Unknown

SCENT: charcoal (from sketching designs) and maple syrup, a hint of cinnamon, spring

INSPIRATION

SONG: La Vie en Rose by Édith Piaf, Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter, The Serpent's Story by Lorne Balfe, Look what you made me do by Taylor Swift, One woman army by Porcelain Black

PINTEREST: here !! (in the making)

AESTHETIC: Charcoal drawings, scattered lines, elegant fabrics blowing in the window, a garden full in bloom, the fall of leaves, maple syrup over pancakes next to a cup of coffee, a sewing mannequin, soft piano music playing in another room, the crinkling of the newspaper, ink turned into words on a page, someone twirling in a ballroom, light going into darkness, shadows dancing across a wall, a fireplace, the fall of flower petals

RELATIONSHIPS

PARENTS: Evan Rosier Sr. (deceased) & Lucille Rosier, née Lockhart (deceased)

SIBLINGS: Evan Rosier (twin brother).

SIGNIFICANT OTHER: None.

OTHER FAMILY: None.

CHILDREN: None.

EDUCTATION:

SCHOOL: Hogwarts

HOUSE: Slytherin

EXTRACURRICULAR: Charms Club, Slug Club

CLASSES INVESTED IN: Transfiguration, Charms, Defense against the Dark Arts, Astronomy, Theory of Magic, Arithmancy

SPOKEN LANGUAGES: French, English, Norwegian

PHYSICAL TRAITS

EYE COLOR: Blue-Grey

HAIR COLOR: Blonde

HEIGHT: 5′6

SCARS: None.

PERSONALITY

INTELLIGENCE: High. Adaptive.

SKILLS: wandless magic (decent, practicing), dueling (practicing) with Antonin Dolohov, occlumency (decent, practicing), sewing skills (incredibly skilled), design and arts (delicate, skilled)

POSITIVE TRAITS: confident, caring, creative, loyal, prepared

NEGATIVE TRAITS: impatient, vindictive, conceited, perfectionist

MBTI: ENFJ

BIOGRAPHY:

Leta was born on April 1st as one of a pair of twins. They came into the world together, and somehow it always seemed to remain that way. From an early age on Leta was protective of her brother, always wanting to assure he was happiest as he could; or as happy as she could help him be. While Evan seemed to be held on a tight leash by their father, Leta herself was taken under her mother's wing. It was there that she observed and learnt the art of wearing a mask at any given time, frequently changing between the young girl that could behave according to etiquette and the free and wild spirit burning to learn anything she could get her fingers on.

Early on it became clear, during the many dance, embroidery and etiquette lessons that the young witch had a talent for the arts and loved the creativity that came with designing her own things. What started out as the ideas of a child would one day grow to be the ideas of a respected designer. Until then many years would pass, years filled with a desire to better herself. Language classes were eventually added to the mix. Naturally a french she picked up English with ease and eventually added Norwegian to the mix as a part of her wondered if their parents would perhaps sent the children to Durmstrang. The latter was disproved when their Hogwarts letter arrived.

Slytherin. It didn't even take the hat a second before he called out what Leta Rosier had known all along. The witch was far too determined, too stubborn and ambitious to let go, far too cunning with her ever changing mask to be at home in any of the other houses. Even though she was fine with friends from other houses, so long as they lived up to bloodstatus expectation, she very much felt the most herself among the other Slytherins.

At age fifteen the twins lost their parents. The scene was horrendous, Leta having seen the aftermath mere minutes before her brother had. In an attempt to protect him, entirely in the unknown that her brother was doing the same, she kept quiet. To this day her act of protecting her brother and putting him first hasn't changed.

Leta buried herself in her school work, began designing even more to the point where she started out by working on designs for friends who needed an attire here or there. Eventually her skills improved further, securing her a spot with a design tutor and an internship at Madam Malkin's. From there on she progressed, rising through the ranks until eventually hard work, ambition and skill led to her becoming one of the top designers of the store, with plenty of private clients and her own atelier within the manor. It was how she came to spend most of her time, reveling in the power of knowing her clothes are what dresses plenty of their society; from the standard Hogwarts robes to fancier dresses and suits. Recently she's begun working on protective dueling suits and accessories to aid the fight she believes in.