#February Fashion Topics

[rebeccablogs]

Which Singer Could Pull This Look Off?

I love this dress,I think it would be great for a party dress at the Grammys or Mtv awards,or even the YouTube awards. The artist I would put this dress on would be Demi Lovato or Doja Cat or Melanie Martinez, I would play it up for her.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 2: Hera, Goddess Of Childbirth]

A/N: Enjoy Chapter 2 a little early! See you on Sunday for Chapter 3 🥰

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.4k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You are buzzed at a private party in the Rainbow Room of Rockefeller Center, Midtown, February 1966, chandeliers and candlelight, pink and red hearts made of paper hanging from shimmering strings and littering the floor. Your roommate Barbara Nassau Astor—yes those Astors, Astor Avenue in the Bronx, Astoria in Queens, “the landlords of New York”—brought you along tonight, and the chance to be swept up into her glittering existence is precisely why your father sent you to a school like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. Barb knows people who know people who know other people and every single individual in that grand design is wealthy and worldly and could possibly lead you into the generous arms of your future husband. You are from Tarpon Springs, Florida, heiress to a sea sponge fortune, and your father nurses powerful ambitions of intermingling his blood with the Northeastern elite.

You scan the selection as you sip your Pink Squirrel. You could marry a doctor and sit in the living room waiting for him to come home at 9 or 10 or 11 p.m., fix him a Whiskey Sour or a Sazerac, listen to him bemoan the complexities of nerves and veins before accompanying him to bed and repeating the whole process the next day. You could marry a lawyer or an advertising executive, and your fate would be much the same. Your own parents are partners in life and business, but you have seen enough to know how rare this is. These men of the Rainbow Room, 65 floors above icy streets radiant with headlights, want a wife whose hands will stay manicured and idle: nannies will tend to the children, maids will clean the house, mistresses will massage the knots out of the muscles of his back. And you—a relative upstart, new money among ancient bloodlines—will have no right to demand otherwise.

A man interrupts your reverie. He wants to know about the pendant you wear around your neck. You sigh before you turn to him; you resist the instinct to roll your eyes. And then you see him. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with a curious intensity and a teasing little smirk, an Old Fashioned in his grasp like molten gold. You don’t know it yet, but he is a senator from New Jersey, very recently elected, victorious yet still hungry. He steals the oxygen out of your lungs. He drowns you in the amber-musk warmth of his cologne.

“It’s Athena,” you say, touching your fingertips to the silver medallion self-consciously; and you are rarely self-conscious. The black polish has been scrubbed from your nails and replaced with a soft, shimmering champagne. You spent two hours this afternoon having your hair painfully teased and arranged into a Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo.

“Goddess of wisdom.”

“And war and peace. And math.”

“Math?” He is intrigued.

“That’s what I’m studying at school. Math.”

“And yet you are not disinterested in the humanities. You know Greek mythology.”

“Well, Tarpon Springs has a lot of Greeks, and that’s where I’m from, so.”

“Studies math. From Tarpon Springs, Florida. I’m learning everything about you.” He smiles, this magnetic stranger who has captured you like a moon lured into a planet’s gravity. He swallows a mouthful of his Old Fashioned, moisture glistening on his lips. “Do you like Greek food?”

You can’t seem to follow his words. Blood is rushing into your face, hot and dizzying. “What?”

“Greek food. Have you tried it? Hummus, tzatziki, gyros, spanakopita, horiatiki, baklava.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve had it. It’s great.”

“My family owns a house on Long Beach Island,” he says casually. “We eat a lot of Greek food there. You should join us for dinner sometime soon.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Very soon. Maybe this weekend. Are you free?”

No, you’re not; but you’ll cancel plans until you are. “Um, okay. Sure. And who…sorry, I might have missed it, but…who are you…?”

“Aemond Targaryen.” And he shakes your hand like you’re someone who matters. “I’m a senator. I’m trying to end the war.”

With him, you could be a part of something magnificent. With him, you could help save the world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Asteria is the goddess of falling stars, but the home of rising ones. On the north end of Long Beach Island, New Jersey—only 100 miles south of the sleek bladelike skyscrapers of Manhattan—lies the sprawling Targaryen estate. The nine-acre property features one main house and another three for guests, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a ten-car garage, a boathouse, a pier, and an ample stretch of beach that abuts the Atlantic Ocean, open water with nothing interrupting the infinite, miles-deep blue from the East Coast to the Iberian Peninsula. It is the first week of July, 1968, and your 23rd birthday. You are lazing in a lounge chair on the emerald green lawn and eating your third slice of melopita, a cheesecake-like dessert made with honey and ricotta. It originates from the Greek island of Sifnos.

“You two can’t murder each other while I’m gone,” Aemond says. He’s sitting between you and Aegon. His stitches have healed, the worst of his pain has subsided, his poll numbers have only improved since the assassination attempt. He has a glass eye that he can insert for public appearances, but he dislikes it; at home he wears a leather eyepatch that still unnerves the children. Tomorrow, Aemond is flying to Tacoma to campaign ahead of the Washington State Convention on the 13th. Most of the family will be joining him, with only three Targaryens remaining at Asteria: ailing Viserys, useless Aegon, and you, officially too pregnant to travel by plane. You are wearing a floral, flowing, two-piece swimsuit. The sun is blazing in a clear sky. The record player is piping out Time Of The Season by the Zombies.

Aegon waves a hand flippantly, then adjusts his preposterously large blue-tinted plastic sunglasses; he is shirtless, flabby, very sunburned. “I’ll barely be here.”

Aemond looks over at him, amused. “Oh yeah? And what pressing engagements do you have to attend to? I’d love to know.”

You take a bite of your melopita and scatter crumbs across the swell of your belly: seven and a half months along. “I’m sure the prostitutes miss him.”

“They do,” Aegon snaps. “I’m their favorite customer.”

“Well you’re a reprieve for them. It’s always over so quickly.”

Aemond is snickering. Aegon says to him: “23, huh? A 13-year age difference. She could almost be your daughter.”

“And 17 years younger than you. She could definitely be yours.”

“That’s how Aegon likes his girls,” you say. “Too inexperienced to recognize end-stage degeneracy. Still stumbling their way through Shakespeare for English class.”

“Why can’t she stay at the brownstone?” Aegon asks irritably. Aemond owns a historic townhouse in Georgetown for when Congress is in session, though he’s rarely been there since he announced that he was running for president.

“Because Doxie is here to make sure she’s taken care of,” Aemond replies. Eudoxia has been the head housekeeper of Asteria for decades, a formidable battleaxe of a woman who speaks very little English and has a seemingly endless supply of patterned scarves to wrap around her ink black dyed hair. There currently aren’t any permanent staff stationed at the brownstone, and Aemond does not trust strangers. “And because my future first lady is hosting a tea party on the 10th.”

“A tea party!” Aegon gasps, mocking you. “Surely that will patch the wounds of our troubled nation. She’s an inspiration. She’s motherfucking Gloria Steinem.”

“She’s Aphrodite,” Aemond says, beaming with pride, his remaining eye fixed on your belly. He’s lost one piece of himself, but in a month and a half he’ll gain another. “Goddess of love.”

“There must be a more appropriate mythological character. Medusa, perhaps. Lyssa was the goddess of rabies, Epiales was the goddess of nightmares.”

“Aegon, I had no idea you were so…” You search for the right word. “Literate.”

“Io was turned into a cow.” He grins at you, toothy, malicious.

“She’s also one of Jupiter’s moons,” Aemond muses. He draws invisible orbits in the air with his long, graceful fingers. “Beautiful, celestial, pristine…”

“A satellite,” Aegon says. “Mindless. Aimless. Going wherever she’s told.”

Aemond insists as he twists the bracelet around your right wrist, a delicate gold chain he bought during your honeymoon in Hawaii: “Aphrodite.”

“Didn’t she fuck around with, like, everyone?”

“Maybe you should be Aphrodite,” you tell Aegon.

Mimi appears, tottering across the lawn with the straps of her sundress sliding off her shoulders and her Gimlet sloshing precariously in its glass. The children are playing in the surf with the nannies and Fosco, who is entertaining them by diving for seashells and delivering his treasures into their tiny, grasping palms. Criston is supervising from the sand, though he steals frequent glimpses of Alicent as she feeds a wheelchair-bound Viserys—much diminished after a number of strokes—his own slice of melopita, one careful, patient spoonful at a time. “Can we…” Mimi bursts out laughing and almost falls over. She claws her way upright again using the back of Aegon’s chair. “Um…I was thinking…”

“What?” Aegon asks, annoyed, avoidant. If they’ve ever been happy, it was a transient epoch that came and went long before you joined the family. It was before the asteroid killed the dinosaurs.

“We should go back to Mykonos. We had such a nice time in Mykonos. Didn’t we? Didn’t we just adore Mykonos?”

Aegon sighs, glowering out over the ocean. “Yeah, we sure did. Ten years ago.”

“Exactly!” Mimi gushes, oblivious. “When can we go? Next week? Let’s go next week.”

“Mimi, you and the kids will be in Washington, remember?” Aemond says. Alicent will have to be her handler; usually it’s your job to make sure Mimi is ready for photos, eats enough to stay conscious, doesn’t trip over her own feet, doesn’t talk too much to the press.

“Washington?” Like she’s never heard of it.

“The state. Not the city. For the convention.”

“Oh right. Right.” She gulps her Gimlet. You could set your watch by Mimi’s drinking. Tipsy by lunch, drunk at dinner, crawling on the floor chasing the dogs around by 8 p.m. The Targaryens keep a drove of Alopekis, small and white and foxlike. “Well…maybe some other time.”

“After the election,” Aemond says with an abiding, encouraging smile. He tolerates Mimi because he needs her: happy wholesome family, American Dream. Down at the water’s edge, the nannies are giving towels to Fosco and the children as they scamper out of the frothing waves, Mimi’s five and Helaena’s three: Daphne, Neaera—no one can ever seem to spell her name correctly, least of all the six-year-old girl herself—and Evangelos.

Mimi departs, on the hunt for a fresh Gimlet. Aegon reaches into the pocket of his swim trunks—Hawaiian print, royal blue—and pulls out a joint and a Zippo. He sticks the joint between his teeth and goes to light it.

“No,” Aemond says immediately, yanking the joint out of Aegon’s mouth and stomping it into the earth. Then he points down the beach towards the sand dunes. “You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.”

“They can’t tell what I’m smoking!”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“You know there are teenagers getting their limbs blown off in Vietnam right now? I think society has bigger problems than me smoking grass.”

“And yet to solve those bigger problems, I have to win in November. And the suburban housewives will not vote for me if they think I support legalizing marijuana. Trust me, I know. I’ve met them.”

“I wouldn’t want those people’s votes,” Aegon says derisively.

“You’d rather Nixon get them?”

Aegon doesn’t have a speedy rebuttal this time. He contemplates the Atlantic Ocean, the wind tearing at his hair.

“It’s hot as hell,” Aemond says to you, gathering up the newspapers he’s been leafing through, never not thinking about the election, never not strategizing. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

As you accompany Aemond towards the main house—and of course you follow him, always, anywhere—Alicent waves you over to where she and Viserys are sitting to wish you a happy birthday again. From this vantage point, you can just barely spot Otto and Helaena strolling through her garden, a jungle of butterfly bushes and herbs. The stricken Targaryen patriarch beams at the swell of your belly. Viserys likes you, you are his favorite daughter-in-law, though perhaps this is not so lofty an achievement. Moreover, he likes that you are carrying the child of his decent son. Aemond has already decided on the baby’s name: Aristos Apollo. If it is in fact a boy, you suppose you’ll call him Ari, but he doesn’t feel real to you yet. He belongs to Aemond, to the Targaryens, to the nation, but not quite to you. He is more myth than flesh.

“Nothing is more precious than children,” Viserys tells Aemond, raspy and frail. “I would have had at least five more if I could.” Alicent bows her head, an acknowledgement of her failure in this regard. Viserys expects it. You and Aemond politely avert your gazes.

“Thank God for this baby,” Alicent says. “After the year we’ve had? That the whole world has had? We all need something to be grateful for.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, smiling. It must be the promise of a son that has made his maiming go down smoother, and maybe it is his soaring poll numbers too, and maybe it is gratitude that he escaped with his life, and maybe it is even the fact that he has you.

But long after dusk when you’re getting ready for bed—slathering yourself in Jergens, stepping into your chiffon nightgown—as you pass through the sliver of light pouring out of the bathroom, you catch a glimpse of something that stops you. Aemond is standing in front of the mirror with his hands on the rim of the sink, his eyepatch slung over the towel rack, his voided eye socket exposed and gory and irreparably wounded. There’s something in his scarred face that you can’t recall ever seeing before. There is a seething, secret, animal rage. There is fury for everyone who has ever denied him anything.

You remember who you were before you met Aemond at the Rainbow Room in Manhattan at a party you were almost not illustrious enough to attend. You wore your hair long and loose, you downed shots, you smoked, you swore, you slept through class almost every Monday; and then you packed all of this away in your allegorical attic and became someone who could stand beside a senator, and then a candidate, and then a president, someone who could tip the scales of fate.

And you think as you lurk unnoticed in the doorway: Maybe he’s been hiding parts of himself too.

~~~~~~~~~~

July 10th, 10 a.m. He’s snoring on a couch in the living room, the one patterned with sailboats. He’s hugging his acoustic guitar like a child clinging to a teddy bear. Sometimes he plays it for the kids: Get Rhythm, Twist And Shout, Stand By Me, You Can’t Hurry Love. That’s about the extent of his involvement in their lives. He has a law degree from Columbia that his father bought for him. Aside from a brief and disastrous stint as the mayor of Trenton, he has never been gainfully employed. You pour the cupful of ice cubes you collected from the freezer all over his bare chest.

“What the fuck!” Aegon screams as he startles awake. “What is wrong with you?!”

“The guests are arriving in two hours. And you’re going to help me host.”

“I’m not slobbering at the feet of those manicured elitists.”

“It’s easy to say ‘vive la révolution’ from your family’s mansion that you reside in as a professional failure.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m so worthless. If only I spent more time hosting tea parties.”

“I can’t small talk with governors and congressmen, so I have to charm their wives instead. That’s how it works, you idiot.”

Aegon rolls off the couch and rubs his forehead, wincing, hungover. In the dining room, Eudoxia is readying cups and plates, polishing silverware, folding napkins. The caterers will be here soon, and there are also three dishes that you made yourself: stafidopsomo, a bread with raisins and cinnamon; rizogalo, Greek-style rice pudding; and baklava you spent hours chopping walnuts for. At least one show of domestic prowess is an expectation, two is impressive, three is above and beyond, something for the other political wives to chatter about. You know the importance of making a good impression on them. They are as much a part of their husbands’ careers as the speech writers, communication directors, fundraisers. “I need a Bloody Mary,” Aegon groans.

“You need to pull your goddamn weight. Everyone else is working to get Aemond elected. Your five-year-old kid is out on the campaign trail and you can’t walk around with a tray of hummus and mini spanakopitas? Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious,” he says, standing with some difficulty and then shoving by you. “Fuck off, Miss America.”

“Aegon!”

But he’s padding off towards the kitchen with his bare feet, tiki print boxer shorts, bedraggled hair. You follow after him in your spotless white heels and sundress patterned with common blue violets. Your earrings are pearls. You’ve wrangled your hair into a tidy French twist. Aegon is getting a pitcher of tomato juice out of the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka from a cardboard Apple Jacks box. He keeps booze and pills hidden everywhere; you’re always stumbling across his caches.

You open your mouth to unleash something hurtful, something hateful, but then you feel the cold flare of liquid on your thighs as the ocean breeze gusts in through the windows. My dress, you think, alarmed. What did I spill on it? One of the ice cubes you threw at Aegon must have caught on the skirt somehow and melted. That’s your first guess, and it is welcome; water doesn’t stain, and you aren’t sure if you have another outfit that is both formal enough and will still fit you. But when you reach down to touch your leg—now the liquid reaches your knees—your hand comes away red.

You look up at Aegon. He’s staring back at you, thunderstruck, horrified. His Bloody Mary ingredients are now forgotten on the countertop. He shouts for the housekeeper: “Doxie?!”

There is indistinct, cantankerous Greek grumbling in return.

“Doxie! Call an ambulance!”

“I don’t understand,” you say to Aegon, bright clotless blood dyeing the whirls of your fingerprints. I ruined my dress, you think nonsensically. “It doesn’t hurt. Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Don’t move, don’t do anything, just wait for the paramedics.”

But the edges of your vision are going dark and hazy, and the room spins like a flipped coin. Your knees and ankles fold, bones turned to paper. As you drop, Aegon dives for you. You clutch at him, but there’s nothing to grab onto, no suit jacket, no tie, only skin that glows with sunburn. “If I don’t wake up, tell Aemond—”

“You’re not dying, bitch. My luck’s not that good.”

But his eyes are panicked; and they are the last thing you see before you black out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arteries of cement, bones like lead, heavy eyelids opening to reveal strange white walls.

Am I dead?

But no: you hurt all over. Heaven isn’t supposed to hurt. There are needles pierced through the backs of your hands, a splitting rawness in your throat.

Was I intubated? Did I have surgery…?

You try to sit up. The pain is blinding; the severed and sutured latticework of your abdominal muscles is a pit of glass. You gasp, moan plaintively, fumble for the nurse call button on the wooden nightstand.

“Will you stop moving?” Aegon says as he walks into the room. He’s slurping on a straw that pokes out from a Dairy Queen cup. The fluid inside is clumpy and red. Instantly, you think of blood, and a wave of nausea punches through the shredded gore that was once your belly. Aegon flops down into the salmon pink armchair beside the bed and props his combat boots up on the ottoman. “They sliced you up like the Black Dahlia. You’re gonna rip your stitches.”

“They did a c-section…?”

“Yeah, you had some kind of uterus…thing. I don’t remember.”

The baby?? Is the baby alright?? “An abruption?”

More slurping. “No…I think it started with a P.”

“Previa?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You remember waking up a few times: on the kitchen floor as men were lifting you, in an ambulance as the siren shrieked. Someone said you were being taken to Mount Sinai in Manhattan. And that makes sense, that would have been Criston’s plan. Mount Sinai is one of the best hospitals in the country. You look around the room for a bassinet or a crib. Instead you see a wheelchair and a myriad of flower bouquets; word has already gotten out, and so the customary well wishes are pouring in. Lady Bird Johnson sent bluebonnets, the state flower of Texas; Abigail McCarthy sent lilies of the valley; Muriel Humphrey sent roses, traditional, safe, uninspiring; Pat Nixon sent blood orange gladioli. Mrs. Wallace, newly deceased, neglected to call a florist. “Where’s the baby?”

“He’s fine. He’s downstairs in an incubator.”

Ari, you think, though he still doesn’t seem real yet. “What…?”

“His lungs are underdeveloped. But the doctors think he’ll be alright. You want a Mr. Misty? There’s a Dairy Queen like two blocks from here.”

“No, I don’t want a Mr. Misty,” you say, incredulous. “I want to see the baby.”

“Well they can’t move him and they can’t move you, so you’ll have to wait.”

“I’m going to see him—” You swing your feet off the bed and feel daggers, fire, a splintering like someone has taken a hammer to your bones. You almost scream; it takes everything in you to choke it down and only gasp as your flesh becomes an inferno. I want a joint, you think randomly, an urge you’d believed you had exorcised from yourself, an archaic relic of a past life.

“Told you,” Aegon says smugly.

You lie panting, helpless, glancing at the phone on the nightstand. “Aemond knows?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve called everyone. He knows.”

“Good. So he’ll be here soon.”

“Sure,” Aegon says, perhaps a tad noncommittally.

“Okay.” You’re still trying to catch your breath. Tacoma is a six hour flight away. Even if Aemond doesn’t leave until morning, he’ll be here by sundown tomorrow. “You can go now.”

“Go?!” Aegon exclaims, then laughs, one of his reckless, taunting cackles. “Oh no. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You definitely are.”

“No, I’m not,” he insists, grinning. “For once in my life, I’m the person who’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. I’m the honorable one. The sacred heir of the favorite son has just been born, and the blessed mother has been sawed in half like Saint Simon the Zealot, and where is Aemond? Where is literally everyone else? Across the continent shaking hands and forcing smiles to win him the great state of Washington. I’m not going home. I’m collecting every second I spend here like coins from a slot machine. I won the jackpot, babe. No one is ever going to be able to call me the family fuckup after this.”

The pain is horrible, insurmountable; you can’t think through it. You close your eyes and try not to sob, to wail, to split yourself open in body and soul. I can’t let him see me break down.

“What’s up?” Aegon asks. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I want a Mr. Misty. Go get me a Mr. Misty.”

“Okay,” Aegon says doubtfully. “What flavor?”

“I don’t care. Not red.”

“They have orange, lemon-lime, grape—”

“Just pick one!” you shout, tears brimming in your eyes. Get out, get out, get out.

“Calm down, psycho!” he yells back, heading for the door.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, you snatch the call button off the nightstand and press it frantically until a nurse arrives. You get more morphine and sink into a stillness like deep water, down, down, down.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s dark outside, stars and a crescent moon. On the television is grainy footage from the Battle of Khe Sanh. American soldiers younger than you are dragging their wounded brethren to a Chinook helicopter for evacuation: bandages, burns, missing limbs and faces. Aegon had dozed off in his chair—assisted by an ample amount of Vicodin, surely—but is stirring awake now. He blinks groggily at the screen.

“It’s so fucking awful,” you say, and Aegon’s eyebrows shoot up; it’s the first time you’ve ever sworn in front of him. You trained yourself to stop when you met Aemond. “30,000 Americans dead, God knows how many Vietnamese peasants, Buddhist monks setting themselves on fire, and for what? So we can say we did everything we could to stop communism? So we can humiliate the Russians? There is no liberation of Vietnam. All we’re doing is making those people hate us. And we’re destroying ourselves too.”

“I didn’t know you cared about the war.”

You look at him, mystified. “Everything I do is about the war.”

“But you never really talk about it.” Aegon yawns and stretches, reaching up towards the ceiling. “You talk about Chanel dresses and tea parties.”

“Well yeah, because it’s…it’s unseemly, I guess. For me to speak on the war. Me specifically.”

He snorts. “Because you’re a woman? Who told you that? Aemond?”

You hesitate, watching the television again. Now there are napalm bombs incinerating villages and rice paddies. “I had a boyfriend before Aemond, you know.”

“What, in kindergarten? Chasing each other around the playground? Illicit snuggles beneath the slide?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “A real boyfriend.”

“No way. You did not.”

“I did,” you insist, smiling a little. “We met at a party my freshman year of college. He was at NYU studying…oh, I always forgot, that was one of our jokes. It was either archaeology or anthropology. I actually thought I was going to marry him for a minute there.”

“Scandalous.” Aegon is gazing at you with his murky blue eyes, grinning, playful. “What happened?”

“He had a moral crisis about poor kids getting shipped off to Vietnam to be slaughtered while he was tucked safely away in his ivory tower. So he enlisted, and honestly it was shocking how quickly I started to forget about him. We exchanged a few letters, it didn’t last long, I think he was forgetting about me too. But he ended up getting killed in action in October, 1965. His old roommate told me.”

Now Aegon is thoughtful. His crooked grin dies. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s his parents I feel bad for. He was an only child. I heard his father drank himself to death.”

“You’ve been carrying a story like that around with you and you never used it? Not in an interview or an article, not at one of your asinine little tea parties?”

“I can’t,” you confess. “Aemond doesn’t want me to. He doesn’t like to be reminded about…you know. That there was someone else before.”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles, combing his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair. “As if Aemond was a virgin when you met him.”

But it’s not the same. It isn’t to Aemond, and it wouldn’t be to the rest of the world either. It is your eternal disgrace. It is something you will be expected to atone for until you’re in the grave. “Give me a joint.”

Aegon is amazed. “What?”

“I know you have some, you always do. I want one. Give it to me.”

“You smoke grass?”

“I used to. Then I gave it up. But I’m making an exception.”

He gawks at you for a while, then slips a joint out of one of the front pockets of his green army jacket. He places it between his lips, lights it with his little chrome Zippo, and inhales deep and slow. Then he offers it to you.

“I don’t want herpes.”

Aegon laughs. “I don’t have herpes. I swear.”

“Not yet, maybe. Give it time.”

“Are you gonna smoke or not?”

You take the joint and fill your lungs with earth, floral notes, a tinge of spice. It’s been years, but it comes rushing back in an instant as the high hits your bloodstream: calm quiet weightlessness, a sense of wellbeing that fills the honeycomb hollows of your bones. “I need to see the baby.”

Aegon stalls. “The doctors were really insistent that you stay here.”

“And all the sudden you care about rules.”

He considers this, drumming his palms on his thighs. His jeans are ripped; he’s biting his lower lip. Then abruptly, he stands. “Alright.” He grabs the wheelchair and pushes it up against the bed. “Let’s go.”

You take another drag and then discard the joint in your empty Dairy Queen cup. You throw off your blanket and try to touch your bare feet to the cool linoleum floor. It hurts, it feels like razor blades, but you keep going. Then you remember you still have one IV in the back of your left hand. “Wait, how am I going to…?”

“You’re in luck. I am well-versed in needles.” Aegon holds out a palm. Nervously, you give him your hand. He peels off the medical tape, takes a moment to examine the vein, then slides out the needle so smoothly you don’t feel it at all; it barely even bleeds. He balls up a Kleenex from the box on your nightstand and secures it to the wound with the same strip of tape. “You’re welcome.”

“Junkie.” You try to lower yourself into the wheelchair and a yelp rips from your throat.

“Oh, this is pathetic,” Aegon says, but not quite unkindly. “Here.” He leans down in front of you. Too desperate to be prideful, you link your arms around the back of his neck. Aegon’s shaggy blonde hair tickles your cheek; his hands skim gingerly to settle on your waist, steadying you without too much pressure. He helps you into the wheelchair, where you collapse gasping and sweating bullets.

“If you ever mention this again, I will guillotine you.”

He winks. “Relax, little Io. I never kiss and tell.”

“I’d assume you’re usually too plastered to remember the details.”

“Be nice. I could roll you down a staircase.” But he doesn’t; he rolls you into the hallway instead.

The lights in the corridor are dim for night, for dreams. You see a few nurses shuttling in and out of other rooms from a distance, but none seem to notice you and Aegon. He steers the wheelchair into the elevator and you ride it down two floors, then cross another hallway and pass through a set of doors. There must be a dozen incubators, half of them occupied. The nurse on duty—currently cradling a tiny infant in her arms, a girl judging by the pink hat, and feeding her from a bottle of formula—gapes at you.

“Ma’am? You aren’t supposed to be—”

“Shut up,” Aegon tells her, and the nurse doesn’t say another word.

Aegon pushes the wheelchair down the line of incubators until you reach the one with a name card labelled Targaryen, Aristos Apollo. And there he is: unmistakably fragile, impossibly small, blue veins like a roadmap beneath translucent skin, tangled in tubes and wires. In his sleeping face you don’t see Aemond or even yourself, but rather an inexplicable familiarity. You feel like you’ve met him before. You feel like you’ve known him all your life.

You press your hand to the clear, domed wall of the incubator; shadows in the shape of your outstretched fingers fall over Ari’s face. “He’s real.”

“Of course he is.” Aegon is watching you; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, a blur of blonde hair and high cheekbones. When you turn to him, he immediately looks away.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” But his voice is distracted, bewildered, like someone fumbling for a light switch in a dark room.

[mirai-e-jump]

ViVi Magazine, February 2024 Issue Murakami Erica x Hirakawa Yuzuki Interviews (translation below)

Publication: December 22, 2023

Erica and Yuzuyan's rambling talk

The close combination of Hirakawa-chan, known as Yuzuyan, and Erica appear for the first time in ViVi. During this photoshoot, we could feel the close friendship between them, as they giggled and talked the whole time. We asked alot about these two, who are a hot topic right now.

-Our youth is now! Anyway…I'm so glad we met~!-

"What do you call each other?"

Erica: Everyone calls her Yuzuyan.

Yuzuki: I've never had a nickname before, but I got one for the first time on set (laughs). I call her Marie.

Erica: I think everyone at ViVi was surprised to call me by that name. Actually, my real middle name is Marie, and everyone on set of the show calls me Marie. I'm so happy about my secret name~

"What is it like on set?"

Yuzuki: We chat alot while waiting to film. There's the 6 of us filming together, and when we've all gathered, it's like break time at school (laughs). It's so loud and noisy!

Erica: Someone will get into things, someone else will join in and do something stupid, and so on and so forth (laughs). Every day is jam packed with inside jokes. It's silly, but the 6 of us spending time together is so much fun~.

Yuzuki: We've been filming together almost every day for 10 months, so our friendship levels are amazing. From the very beginning, when we first started filming, we were all in perfect sync and got along well. But, when the cameras start rolling, everyone gets serious. It's amazing how everyone's faces change so quickly!

"What kind of personalities do you two have?"

Yuzuki: Marie is, in a single word, a bomb (laughs). Marie's explosive power when she's tired is insane (laughs). She'll suddenly explode and become cheerful. And, we all get caught up in it and get excited too (laughs).

Erica: We spend so much time on the set, that if we don't talk, I get sleepy, so I feel at ease exploding because everyone will pick up the pieces (laughs).

Yuzuki: She does things that go way beyond what you'd expect, so I never get tired of watching her. I'm like, "Even though you're so cute, why would you do something like this?" She's constantly one upping how interesting she can be (laughs). I can't tell if she's trying to be funny or if it's all natural.

Erica: Thanks for letting me do it, and for being on the receiving end (laughs). Yuzuyan is everyone's "straight man" older sister, but she can also be everyone's little sister.

Yuzuki: I'm often described as being a 5th grade boy~. We're the "mess around" combo.

"What does your existence mean to each other?"

Erica: After becoming an adult, I never thought I'd meet someone who I could mess around with so much, even more so through work!

Yuzuki: I'm so glad that someone like her exists, where we can joke around and laugh like this as friends 💜.

"What were your first impressions and current impressions?"

Yuzuki: I knew of Marie's modeling from reading ViVi, and I thought she was just so~ cute and looked like a doll. But, the more I learned about her, the more I thought she was like a bomb (laughs).

Erica: My first impression of Yuzuyan was that she was a very refreshing person. But in reality, she talks alot and is hyperactive (laughs). She notices things that other people don't see and takes the initiative to follow up, and is very considerate. From the very beginning, I felt like she was a dependable older sister. She's also good at remembering directions (laughs).

"How was today's shoot? How do you like Erica as a ViVi model?"

Yuzuki: When I look through ViVi, Marie is so cool…..she doesn't always look like this! It makes me want to get involved (laughs). She wears cool clothes and her expressions are amazing! It's so cool!!

Erica: This was the first time for the two of us to do a photoshoot together for a fashion magazine. I was happy to be able to work as a model like I usually do. We were able to shoot as our usual natural selves, which was alot of fun and very fresh. I thought it would be so much fun to shoot with someone who understands me.

Yuzuki: For today's shoot, she led me around alot, and I was impressed by the fact that she was such a great ViVi model!

"Do you see any similarities between yourself and the role you play in Ohsama Sentai King-Ohger?"

Erica: I think we share the same caring nature. However, I myself am not strong willed, so I admire her for that.

Yuzuki: I think we're similar in that we have humanity. We're both basically no nonsense, and we have our "on and off" switch. However, while my role is to be immovable, I'm actually extremely hyperactive, which is the complete opposite.

[thelamentknight]

Carmen Larimar

19/Female

German

Pansexual Demisexual

Aquarius (her birthday is February 14)

She says she’s from this place called Meissen, Germany.

Twisted from Cinderella

Ramshackle

She isn’t a student

She’s in the Fashion Club

Her Favorite Food is Sirloin Steak

Her Least Favorite Food is Apples

Dislikes Social Interaction

Hobbies include: Sketching, Sewing, Designing, reading King Arthur, and reading

Talents: Cooking, cleaning, and being able to speak to animals

UM: “Shatter Glass.” Unless it is 12:00am or 12:00pm, Carmen is completely immune to spells and UMs. For example, if Riddle were to use “Off with your head” and collar Carmen, the collar would immediately shatter into little blue glass pieces and disintegrate. Interestingly, this UM never accumulates any blot, and is always on (unless it is 12:00, to which it then turns off). This might be because Carmen is only half Wonderlandian.

Carmen is my version of the MC in Twisted Wonderland. She recalls getting carried into a mysterious carriage by a hooded figure before she ended up in Wonderland. She is the hot topic of lots of gossip in NRC, from her origins to her involvement in Overblots. By the end of the school year, she transfers to Académie Princesse Radieuse (APR), an All-Girls Fashion College.

She’s seen as a bit of a mystery to the other students due to her quiet, timid and reserved nature. She rarely talks, and when she does, she tends to replies in stutters and short answers. Carmen usually keeps to herself, and rarely opens up. She tends to have her head down, and gets flustered quite easily. She’s very kind, always putting others before her, something that many NRC students try to exploit.

Backstory (R*pe, V*olence, G*rey D*ath, and Ab*se warning):

Carmen’s Father is Emery Larimar, the heir of the Larimars. The Larimars are an extremely powerful family, as the Larimar jewelry they make work as translation jewels. When Emery overblotted and k!lled his whole family, he went missing so he could hide from STYX. He had taken a portal and transported to earth, specifically Germany.

However, while he was there, Emery was dr*gged and r*ped by Ingrid Weiss, a ruthless Mafia boss. After r*ping him, Ingrid dragged him to the garbage cans and asked his last name. Emery (still dr*gged) answered that it was Larimar, and Ingrid kicked him before leaving him in the garbage cans. Afterwards, Emery transported back to Wonderland, and was shortly captured by STYX. 8-9 months later, Ingrid gave birth to twins, Carmen and Roman. Emery would remain unaware that he’s a Father.

A couple years later, Ingrid gave birth to Carmen and Roman’s half sisters: Diana and Annabelle. Diana and Annabelle were spoiled rotten and given the finest things. Meanwhile, Carmen and Roman were treated dirt poor and became servants for their own Mother and half sisters. Due to Ingrid’s hate of men, she k!lled Roman by feeding him to dogs she purposely starved when he was 5. Carmen was forced to watch, and Ingrid’s guard had to hold her down as she was kicking and screaming, trying to save her brother.

As the years went on, Carmen was treated like a servant to her Mother and Half Sisters. They also physically ab*sed her as they found Carmen screaming and crying hilarious. One day (when Carmen was 15-16), there was a mouse under Annabelle’s tea cup, so Annabelle, Diana, and Ingrid assumed it was a prank by Carmen. It was not, but they still responded by grabbing glass and cutting her face with it, leaving open gashes on her face (the reason Carmen wears a mask). They disowned her, and dumped her onto the streets. For the next few years, Carmen wandered the streets all alone and slept in the alleys. And she would live like this until a mysterious hooded figured picked her up and carried her to a carriage.

Fun Facts:

+ If you touch her, she’ll squeak like a mouse

+ She has a beautiful singing voice, but she only sings when she’s alone

+ She thinks frogs, mice, and rats are really cute animals

+ She takes shifts working at Sam’s workshop. After Chapter 3, she also sometimes help Azul with cooking for Mostro

+ She dreams to become a Fashion Designer

+ She hates apples because that’s all she was allowed to eat. If her Mother or sisters caught her eating anything else, they’d force her to puke

+ She wears Larimar studded earrings to understand others. She only knows German

+ Dates Vil Schoenheit

+ Carmen and Grim originally counted as one student. Grim would attend classes, while Carmen would either do chores Crowley couldn’t bother to do or work a shift for Sam’s shop. At the end of Chapter 6, when the Headmistress of APR and Crowley have a talk, they agree to make Grim count as a student so Carmen can transfer to APR

+ As she’s not technically a student, she never got a uniform. Carmen made her “uniform” herself

+ After staying in Wonderland for a while, Carmen decided that she wouldn’t return to Earth. Wonderland is more of a home to her than earth was

+ After each boy Overblots, Carmen comes to visit them as they heal in the medical wing. She’ll also bring them their favorite food, which she cooked herself

+ Due to what she’s been through, Carmen has PTSD, depression, and horrible sleeping problems. After gaining enough money (by around Chapter 5-6), she’s taking therapy and medication

+ She has prescribed glasses, but usually wears contacts

+ She’s very tall (she reaches Malleus’ horns without the heels

+ When she told the mirror her name was Carmen Larimar, and the mirror didn’t correct her, everyone in NRC lost it. Throughout the entire year, there was this whole debate on whether or not Carmen was actually a Larimar

+ She’s very tall. She reaches Malleus’ horns, so she’s 202cm

Voice Claim

[wonder-worker]

Elizabeth of York got Elizabeth Wydeville's properties in 1487 by Henry VII?

(don't reblog)

Hi! Yes, Elizabeth Woodville’s dower lands were transferred to her daughter in 1487. However, it doesn't seem that Elizabeth of York received all the properties her mother possessed during her time as queen.

Mainly because J.L Laynesmith said that “Elizabeth of York received a portion of her mother's lands and fee farms and an annuity from the town of Bristol, which amounted in total to less than half of her mother's income”.

Derek Neal’s analysis amounts to something similar. He wrote that Elizabeth Woodville’s properties were confiscated by Richard III, and after 1485, “Henry VII restored 27 properties and added seven new ones, meaning that Elizabeth lost at least 70 per cent of her pre-1483 estate, though she regained almost all her original fee-farms. By 1486, however, there was a new queen needing a dower of her own, and when Elizabeth Woodville left court the next year*, her daughter received these 34 lands along with the fee-farms.”

Likewise, Michele Seah wrote that after recognizing Elizabeth Woodville as dowager queen, Henry VII "re-granted to her most, but not all, of the lands initially granted in 1465." (I presume the numerous lands and income Elizabeth had additionally acquired across her queenship weren't included). These were the lands then transferred to Elizabeth of York in 1487.

So it seems that other historians have oversimplified and/or misunderstood what the transfer entailed, first assuming that Elizabeth Woodville was granted all her former lands by Henry VII, and then that Elizabeth of York received the lands her mother had as queen rather than the ones that had been specifically granted to her in 1485.

Either way, Elizabeth of York was additionally granted some of her aunt Isabel Neville’s property during the Earl of Warwick’s minority in 1489, followed by a grant of Fotheringhay (a property her father was known to have enjoyed, and which she may have thus been attached to) in March 1495. The death of her grandmother Cecily Neville in that same year significantly improved her estate, giving her an additional annual income of around £1,399, as was the case in 1496.

Also, while Elizabeth did struggle with debts, this was not unusual at all among queens, and it was Henry VII who regularly repaid them for her. It's worth keeping in mind that while some former queens who were struggling financially ended up having to reduce the size of their household (eg: Joan of Navarre, Margaret of Anjou) or merge it with the King's (eg: Philippa of Hainault), Elizabeth of York was not made to do any of those things and maintained unchanged autonomy of her household until her death.

Anon asked: I read that Elizabeth of York's last year finance was actually for half year?

Again, it's unclear. This comes from Retha Warnicke's book Elizabeth of York and her Six Daughters-in-Law: Fashioning Tudor Queenship, where she wrote “After [Elizabeth's] death in February 1503, Richard Decons noted in her privy purse accounts that he had collected £3,535, 19 shillings, 10 1/2 pence. Since the financial year had begun at Michaelmas (September 29) in 1502, as it did every year, this sum was not inconsequential.”

However, Michele Seah's newer article "Gifts and Rewards: Exploring the Expenditure of Late Medieval English Queens" explicitly states that the household accounts kept by Decons were for the months March 1502 to February 1503.

But again, I'm not super familiar with this topic and so my answer may be off-balanced. I hope that Seah’s upcoming book Financing Queenship in Fifteenth-Century England will shed more light on the situation!

*We don't know much about Elizabeth Woodville's situation after 1487, including whether she truly left court. See here for a longer explanation.

[a-d-nox]

fashion of metaphysics

last updated: february 23rd, 2023

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[ccsven]

In celebration of our one year anniversary the admins and mods and I have decided to give a rundown of the history of Eden’s Rest, our sleep token fan made discord server.

Today, on December 26th, the server was born created by two fans with the intent on building a fan hang out place for people 18+. I was one of the first few to join on day one, after that people began flooding in. It seemed like every day someone new would join. We had many on topic and off topic channels to chat in ranging from fashion, art, other music, to dream journaling and spirituality.

Some of you may remember my rants earlier in the year about Tuesday being related to sleep token. We have @toobluebirdie , a fellow friend in the server, to thank for the deep dive rabbit hole they did connecting links that likely made us look crazy back in January-February. We still go crazy any time sleep token does anything on a Tuesday. One of the fun things to come of this server.

Unfortunately it seemed like things quickly came to an end when the previous server owners one day transferred everything over to a different friend in the server. Leaving without a word of warning, the server was wiped in seemingly random places. Our bots were gone, channels were randomly missing/deleted, and every single channel that remained was empty. In a desperate attempt to get things back to normal, I tried figuring out how bots work on discord (which ended horribly), but thanks to @comp-lady , whole spent hours rebuilding our server from the ground up. She knew how to use the bots and had experience in managing servers. The Wipening, as we call it, left us anxious and traumatized. A whole thread for fics was gone, important pins, gone, but we built it back up with what we could.

Despite the stress that came with The Wipening, a more notable event that we enjoy to share is one you may have seen a while back as well. Two of our fellow friends had experienced homelessness for months, as if anything couldn’t get worse, each day seemed to be another problem and stress for them. Living at their camp was becoming increasingly dangerous. With the help of our server and friends, a plan was made to get them somewhere safe, to get them out, and a gofundme was made to help fund their travel. They quickly met their goal and had moved in to a friend in the servers home with the help of another friend who drove them there. Our server and fellow fans and people in between helped get our friends to a safer place, helped get them out of homelessness.

Though we have faced difficulties in the past, we have built a wonderful and safe place for Sleep Token fans to interact with fellow fans. I’m glad to say that I’ve made friends in this server, I’m glad to say I’m willing to fight to keep this server alive.

And so I ask you, as long as you are 18+ (mind you this is an adult space), are you interested in joining us and celebrating our second coming year as part of Eden’s Rest?

[intoloopin-archive]

for @ofmanycol0rs !!!

Love had sent an ask about J.J's blonde party guy era but Tumblr tricked me into deleting it, so here is it my second attempt to talk about it as a post. I hate this Hell site mechanics more than anything, BUT! I am very passionate about this one topic as you can see by the size of THIS.

GIO.

I am making a little tangent here because this is a great opportunity to talk about J.J's blonde era as a general phenomenon, as well as do a little character deep dive into how Jiahang's mind works when the subject is his public appearance, because I'm yet to fully communicate just how business savvy and attention seeking he is at his core. These two characteristics were very integral to his nightlife downfall.

⤴️↪️ A MOMENT IN TIME: J.J's BLONDE ERA PITIFUL FINAL AESTHETIC. He is currently recovering from it successfully, but still. The horrors.

One thing that is key to understand about Jiahang is that he is NOT a team player, he wasn't raised by his social climber pageant mom and his millionaire movie director dad to be one. His long term goal is to stand on his own as an 'icon' - notice the use of 'icon' instead of 'musician' or 'artist' or even 'idol'. He wants everyone to see two Js put together in a sentence and immediately associate them with him (as in J.J Xu, not LOOPiN's J.J, and definely not as J.J from That Once LOONA Sibling Group), but he is realistic with his limitations: Jiahang is not a musical prodigy like Zhiming, or obsessed/respectful with the craft as Minwoo, or has the mental discipline to train himself to greatness like Haegon, and when you're in a group with people like that with ambitions like his, you're always in a competition.

To put it very bluntly: Jiahang is too clumsy to ever become more than an average dancer, he doesn't have an easy voice for singing and he can barely call himself a rapper. Artistic kills can't be the base of his brand, because that's what he sees his J.J stage persona as, a brand. He's not an artist. And if conventional talent can't be his selling point, he has to use what's naturally available to him - personality, a face widely considered to be attractive, a shitton of money, and an extremely sharp eye for business.

Seriously, the amount of marketing stunts he has pulled for and come up with for LOOPiN alone is NO JOKE. Jiahang understands the inner workings of the entertainment industry more than any of his bandmates, and that's his head start.

Now, on the hair. Jiahang has a very deep and sentimental history with his hair, a bit too extense to fully explain with this one post, but he's been wearing it very long since he was a child, because he loves it, and he was picked up on for it constantly. Keep growing it out despite everything what his first real way of asserting himself, and it's the one thing Jiahang is authentic with throughout - integrating it into his branding was essential to him.

He went about it very strategically: J.J never had a defined clothing style, instead, he goes out of his way to wear almost anything to prove that his hair doesn't automatically put him on a visual box, and there is no reason for him to sacrifice it for any gig. He won't be a long haired male Idol until someone tells him time's up, he will be The Definitive Long Haired Male Idol (and in canon he has succeed! Like, K-Pop knows he's the final boss).

A lot of iNSYNCs consider him one of LOOPiN's fashionistas for this plus all the design shit he has, side by side with Seungsoo and Haruki, but that title doesn't fit Jiahang at all. Haruki and Seungsoo have a genuine interest in fashion, while Jiahang has none, it's all performance. He simply wants a stable signature attached to him, something he can have the ultimate control of, and that he won't get bored of maintaining. Alas: his very, very adored long hair.

⤵️➡️ A DISSECTION OF J.J's BLONDE ERA (FEBRUARY 2022 - SEPTEMBER 2023)

FROM LEFT TO RIGHT: (1&2) J.J's 'Punch' teasers, a shocking blonde debut. | (3&4) The overall lengths and colors Jiahang kept transitioning between in his day to day life. | (5&6) 'Mess' peeking through near the end, but integrated into his presenting style. | J.J's 'Beatbox - Street Beat Ver.' and 'Internet War - Tell Me What To Do' teasers.

(1&2): I can't even begin to describe how iNSYNCity completely STOPPED when the 'Punch' teasers started rolling out and J.J appeared not only fully blonde, but with these polarizing face covering bangs. The styling came fully out of his own brain, of course, and he wanted all the controversial attention right out of the gate to plant the seeds of the 'elevation' of his stage persona. He wanted 2022 to be his year SO BAD;

(3&4): Up until that point in his career, Jiahang had his hair straight, ironed out to perfection even when he dyed it anything else than his usual black and brown, but while blonde he always kept it very wavy to drawn an even bigger contrast with his former Idol branding;

(5&6): Oh, mid 2023... The roots showing... The messy teeny tiny ponytails... The color... You can clearly see a lack of polish that is very unusual of him. Jiahang wore a lot, and I mean A LOT of hair extensions during this era right here, mostly to cover up how fucking fried his hair was starting to look due to low maintenance (Dongwook and CIA made fun of him if he showed up Too Put Together at the clubs, and after a while it really started to get to him). He adopted a very edgy Y2K style to try to make it all seem intentional, even had stylized black highlight for a while, but Jiahang felt like he wasn't fooling anyone - it didn't appear as such to the public, lucky him. This is pretty much how he looked until he fully cut off his nightlife circle of "friends" in September, and dyed his hair back to black;

(7&8): Ah, his last blonde official teasers... What a way to go. Blonde J.J had such a dramatic styling but that was very well translated into all the eras he was on, he never looked out of place. That's why even the general public now considers this run to be very iconic, as he wanted. But at what personal cost, Jay?! AT WHAT COST?!

I am still debating on how his 'clean era' looks like. I'm not sure if he would just dye his hair black and cut off the bits that look Horrible (J.J!Bayi) or if this whole experience fucked him up so bad that Jiahang would cut it pretty short and grow it back from the begging, for the healings (J.J!Didi), but anyways! He is doing better <3 currently <3 not for long <3 like at all <3 he is about to get very fucked up by the narrative <3 but on the bright side (????) that means that he'll have another very Intense hair moment, and spoiler alert, it'll look a lot like this (in Vibes, the length is still something I don't know 😁)

[rebeccablogs]

Love Couples Marvel

[chipstertool]

Chipster Rambles About: Hachi Koi (はち恋)

What I could gather from Hachi Koi or はち恋 is that it was a cancelled game/love simulator for the Nintendo DS as it was announced in 2008.

Additionally, I come to realize that this game has been acknowledged since 2012 on Tumblr by one of the main heroines, Kurumi.

Surprisingly, this was attempted by EA of all companies according to blog with a defunct link as the main plot is that a death god tells the protagonist that he's going to die by his next birthday and the only to stop it is to fall in love with one of the featured heroines.

As for the other company, NEURON AGE or NeuronAge, I don't have any concrete information on what they do towards the gaming market.

For its mechanics, it'll probably functions like a dating sim/love sim although has a "Touch Event". So think of games like FE: Fates or Nintendogs that feature this, hell you could think of Doki Doki Majo Shinpan! But with a DS game that'll potentially garner a niche audience, why did this game get cancelled? I haven't found the reason why, so I'm left in the dark with this one.

[Source: Tiny Cartridge]

So, where does that leave this canceled project? It was later turned into a smartphone game for the iOS and Android that ran from October 1, 2012 to February 28, 2014. This also came with a new mechanic which are love points that occurred from outfits and dates plus using related topics to spark a conversation while also keeping the touch event.

[Source: GameBiz]

The plot also seems to have changed to a potted plant that handed from a fortune teller as this plant can predict and advise Makoto Shirai's luck in romance.

His luck being with one of the eight heroines with some simplified summaries:

Akane Aso, the first childhood friend who's active, energetic, and friendly that's a member of the track and field club.

Hina Konishi, the second childhood friend who's shy, gentle, and soothing with a weak body yet strong will.

Mirai Kirishima, a strict committee chairperson with an old-fashioned personality who's trusted by everyone as the leader.

Kurumi Kasugaoka, a clumsy girl who's kind to everyone and quite popular in class.

Noa Saeki, an admirer of the MC that's innocent and bright while also being the hard worker.

Ayumi Ichinose, a mysterious girl who's quite modest and quiet at best. Awfully looks like another teal-haired girl who's a singer.

Maria W Ryuzaki, the only daughter of the board president that has a naïve side yet not good expressing emotions well.

Sayaka Ayukawa, the sexy upperclassman that garnered the attention of the male students yet seems interested in the MC.

[Source: Tsurezure]

Now what I've noticed while looking into the characters are some of the design changes which are mainly Hina (Hair changed from brown to black with removed side buns), Kirishima (Blue hairband thined out and turned white with neck bow removed), Kurumi (Socks become folded near loafers with flower symbol removed), Maria (Outfit color turned from pink to brown that match's Sayaka's along with shoe color + shoe accessory removed) and Sayaka (Change of bangs and heels turned from pink to purple). Their original designs, initially for the DS, are on Game Watch for full viewing.

Sadly, there is no known archive of each of the heroines' outfits. (┳◡┳)

Lastly, their official website is still up and running after shutting down their maintenance and what I can tell you is that it was completely different if you applied the link on Wayback Machine as it was in those days where it was anticipated to be released by 2009 on the NDS. Although, this requires Flash although some are programmed through Ruffle.

By the end of it all, Hachi Koi was a cancelled DS game that still made its way to be released and played until the end. I like to thank certain bloggers who posted the image with Kurumi, without you, I'll probably never found out about this obscure game. Much love!!!╰(⸝⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝⸝)╯

[cerseimikaelson]

Episode 4: A Clash of Style [AO3]

They say the first day of every month is a prelude to how the rest of it is going to be. It always felt a bit baseless to Athena, making an assumption on all 30 or 31 days (she didn't consider February a real month, sue her) with just one measly 24 hour database to support your hypothesis. 

It was currently hour 9-ish into December 1st, and never before had the goddess of wisdom so fervently wished she was right to be skeptical.

You shouldn't be able to say "it's been one of the longest days of my life" before 10 AM of said day. It felt like pure exaggeration.

And it was also hysterically accurate.

Athena's lips pursed tightly as the sound of clanging and rummaging pierced the silence that enveloped her palace. It was the third time she had been interrupted mid-bringing the coffee cup to her mouth. At this rate, she was going to drain it all in one go, scalded tongue notwithstanding, and pour herself a second cup. 

This demon child was going to turn her into a coffee addict.

There was a blessed moment of stillness, which Athena felt tempted to thank the heavens for despite being a celestial entity herself. 

Her ears still ringing, she tried taking a blissful sip of cof-

CLANG! 

Athena had all but slammed the cup onto the table, the dark liquid inside sloshing dangerously, and bolted out of her chair before she even knew it.

The sight that greeted her would have been a surprise three months ago when she still knew the meaning of peace and quiet (Athena was rapidly forgetting and wished there was some type of magic that enabled communication with one's younger self, because she had a List of Topics to issue warnings on).

Now, Athena only felt exasperated.

Viola was bent in a position that resembled a unique combination of headstand and teardrop, which probably required a good amount of flexibility and didn't look very comfortable. Her upper body was buried in the depths of her spacious walk-in closet, spine arching and hands stretching as far as they would go as she noisily moved stuff around.

"Are you done?" Athena asked irritably, although the question was mostly rhetoric. It was clear from the discarded clothing items all around that Viola was looking for something specific. 

"Clearly not." came a muffled reply from inside the closet. Viola didn't exit whatever yoga pose thing she had going on, but she did carelessly throw a shirt on the floor as she continued her fruitless search.

"This might be cause for you to consider you own too many clothes." Athena said, arms crossed in front of her chest despite Viola not looking at her. 

"No such thing, Feathers." 

If possible, Viola moved even deeper into the wardrobe. Athena had thoroughly checked the thing for any tampering or extension charms that would explain it being able to host all of Viola's clothes, but nothing had shown up on her radar. Not so much as a simple carving in the wood. 

"Why can't you just put on something else?" Athena asked despite already knowing the answer wouldn't be to her liking.

"It would ruin the whole outfit. And I've already done my makeup." 

Athena picked up the shirt Viola had so carelessly thrown out of the closet. A closer look confirmed it wasn't a shirt at all. It looked like a brasserie, all dramatic black lace and see-through except for the parts that would cover the nipples. 

Athena winced for multiple reasons.

Viola's fashion choices were... unconventional. Or maybe not really, but for Athena, who wasn't used to spending a lot of time around teenage godlings, (read: any time) it was definitely an adjustment.

Some were an eyesore she could stomach with a bit of goodwill, like the faux-fur purple coat or the animal print leggings.

Others were frankly bewildering, like the lacy gloves that reached the elbow but had holes in them and didn't cover her fingers and the heart-shaped pink glasses that had no lenses.

And others...

Others were the cause of several explosive outbursts because what in the name of the gods did her teenage daughter need strapless gleaming corsets and ripped denim shorts for?? They were shorts! The rips were absolutely unnecessary and only existed to make Athena's ichor pressure rise.

Athena honestly didn't understand, and Viola's perpetual eyerolls and huffs were less than helpful. The girl seemed to have mentally checked Athena into whatever box the "unfashionables" went into in her head and hadn't bothered since.

Athena scowled at the offending garment in her hand. If this was high fashion, she wanted nothing to do with it.

Hopefully whatever Viola was looking for would turn out to be in better taste than whatever this thing was (honestly, who wore those in public?) but Athena knew better than to put all her proverbial eggs in that basket.

"Ah-hah! Hallelujah!" came Viola's triumphant cry as she finally emerged from the damned closet. 

Despite herself, Athena felt a flicker of amusement at the expression. It brought to mind the image of her father's face when Viola had said "amen" the other day and Zeus had turned an impressive shade of purple. 

Her amusement, however begrudging, died just a few seconds later. That had to be some type of world record.

Clutched in Viola's hand was...

Athena actually didn't know what to name it. Neither the material nor the thing itself.

"What exactly is that?" she asked very slowly. All she could tell was that it was meant for the upper part.

"It's a tank top!" Viola seemed unperturbed by her reaction. Or her non-reaction, because Athena still didn't understand.

"It's gold." she persisted. "Glitter?" 

Ares and Aphrodite's daughter Harmonia had an unfortunate obsession with glitter. But Harmonia was four and Athena distinctly remembered the love goddess say kids grew out of "the glittery phase" as they got older. Viola was a teenager- surely she too old to get away with wanting sparkles everywhere. The girl clearly considered herself mature.

"Sequins." Viola corrected, finally looking up to shoot Athena a very flat look. At the sight of the goddess' nonplussed face, she elaborated. "Adult glitter." 

Of course. Of course such a thing existed. And of course there were grown up fools who delighted in it.

"It's very... visible." Athena inwardly congratulated herself on settling on that instead of something impolite.

"That's the idea." Viola winked as if Athena was starting to get it. 

Athena didn't get it at all. 

Read the rest on AO3 (it's 6k so I can't post it all here)

Tagging as a thanks: @justahumanmessingaround, @mythology-lover, @millie-mei, @i-love-ulysses-butterflies, @julesinitor

@toshj13, @ombriaoy, @appolinyou, @greekmythstan, @potatosalad1245

[linesonscreens]

Let's Read Peanuts (Yes, all of it) - February 1953

There are lots of great strips I just don't have room to comment on. I strongly encourage everybody to read the full month at the official GoComics page. Today's month starts HERE.

Feb 5, 1953

Today: “Last night on the internet I read an AI-generated Sonic The Hedgehog erotic fanfic with ten million views”

Feb 6, 1953

I know that those are supposed to be weird thought balloons but it looks like Snoopy just talks now.

Feb 11, 1953

Bah, what's this nonsense? Schroeder never complained!

Feb 14, 1953

First Valentine comic? Maybe?? I really should have made a list of things to look out for when I started. -_-'

Feb 17, 1953

OK, so apparently “Ivanhoe” was a novel written in 1819 by Walter Scott. It's been adapted several times in various formats including an early 1940's comic book and a 1952 live action film.

Film trailer here.

I'd link to the comic but ~for some reason~ nobody bothered to scan and upload a 80+ year old comic nobody's ever hear of onto the internet. Rude!

Feb 21, 1953

Paperboy comics continue to be good.

Feb 27, 1953

Time is a flat circle.

Thoughts:

Apparently the only way to read that Ivanhoe comic (that I've been able to find) is to buy a physical copy off of eBay somewhere and consume it the old-fashioned way. Which is kind of a shame, right? I mean, would it have been especially good or noteworthy? Probably not, but reading a few issues would have been a fun way to get a peek into Schulz's mind and get a feel for the comics he was influenced by.

This kind of thing actually bothers me quite a bit and it's a topic that's been on my mind a lot lately. Think about it like this. Ctrl+Alt+Del is not a particularly good webcomic, but think about how many loss.jpg references have been made in various forms of media over the last couple decades that would simply stop making sense if the original comic were to become inaccessible.

All media is connected. Artists are constantly drawing inspiration from and commenting on works that came before and understanding these influences is a key part of decoding any given work. This is true not only for popular media that everybody agrees is good but also for the absolute garbage that may have been your favorite creator's guilty pleasure. It ALL matters, and it should ALL be available for anybody who's interested. Which is why it makes me irrationally angry when I'm reminded that access to older media can be such a huge crapshoot.

Anyways, I guess my call to action is to... upload more old comics? Sure let's go with that. Maybe support some of the groups archiving old stuff while you're at it. Art is cool, and we should be doing more to let people actually see it.

[parkezra]

✨ hello, beautiful citizens of jongnorp! ✨ how the hell are ya?! my name's ryan (h/h, 25+) and i'm so thrilled to finally be posting one of my eight muses' (yes, i know... i know 😅) intros! first up is one of my all-time favorites, ezra park! he's currently working as an influencer who mostly creates fashion, lifestyle, social commentary, and makeover content, but he'll be expanding his résumé with exciting new projects very soon! 👀 below, you'll find a quick breakdown of his life, as well as bits and pieces of his personality. please 💖 this if you'd like to plot!

1.

to keep things simple, he was born and raised to a rather liberal family in queens, nyc. both his parents made good money, he felt very supported, loved, and accepted, and honestly speaking, he had a rather idyllic childhood. i've written this muse before, but in this update of him, i wanted to give him a less grim upbringing.

however, his brighter history has created new flaws. being that he grew up in a rather privileged environment, it's made him ignorant to many things, and upon moving to seoul, he's been hit in the face with plenty of life's harsh realities. he's on his own now (for the most, part, anyway—his older half-brother is also in seoul), he's starting a career for himself, and it's his first time in a part of the world that's dramatically more conservative than the safe haven he surrounded himself in back home.

is he losing his mind? sort of, but he's doing keep his feet on the ground. he'd love it if you joined him on this new journey he's on!

2.

ezra park is a hedonist. he's someone who'll never say no to another drink, or a second slice of cake, or going home wrapped around the arm of a handsome someone. he's over-indulgent like that, and substantially sensual, as well. he's someone who will catch a man's attention by eye-fucking him across the room, then moments later, appearing only to whisper the most delicate compliment in his ear; hoping that the sweet scent of his breath and the feeling of it ghosting along the other's skin is enough to reel him in for a night of fun.

if there is one thing that ezra park values, it's beauty. why else would he host a show on his channel that highlights attractive men from around the city, mostly by giving them makeovers? why else would he be teaching people how to upgrade their closet with clothing that accentuates their best features? why else would he be interested in ensuring that he never leaves the house looking anything other than immaculate? however, he realizes that, like most things, beauty is subjective, and he aches to discover what others find people, too.

ezra park is an individual, much to the chagrin of his grandparents' home country. he's still not gotten used to the stares of his elders whenever he enters public transit, or the glares he receives from his peers when he's a little too "flamboyant" in a public space, but he likes to think he's learning how to comfortably coexist in a place that doesn't fully understand him. after all, that's kind of all he can do. he made the choice to learn about his heritage and expand his career by relocating, and it's a choice he has to live with now. at least for the foreseeable future.

3.

ezra has a show on his youtube channel where he gives handsome men from around the city (often male models, drag queens, and less often men from off-the-street) to interview and give makeovers to. he asks them questions about growing up in korea, and the knowledge they have on queer individuals, and their opinions on certain topics. in addition to this, he also hosts queer people of korea to ask them, specifically, about their experiences living in the country; hoping to shed awareness on stories told by marginalized voices. these could work as connections!

he's been in the city since february of last year, so it's been around a year and he's likely made some friends! maybe they could be your muses?

he's also likely slept around with plenty of men. he's no stranger to jongtaewon, and even hongdae, so if your muses frequent these areas, they've likely ran into him or ended up in his bed.

does your muse watch his content? do they love it? hate it? have them tell him! it'll be a fun time either way!

i'm honestly down for any and all connections, and this is already so long, so let's come up with something incredible together! 🥺💖

[lez-bichi-lover]

| 𝔅𝔩𝔬𝔤'𝔰 ℑ𝔫𝔣𝔬 |

◇ I'm Lez, any nicknames allowed, Alecz is still ok; I go by He/Him [Él] only and right now I'm 19 y.o [🎂February 6th🎂]. I'm Mexican so I'm a native spanish speaker, still learning english.

◇ I have the biggest special interest on HK, it's lore, characters and memes. Love goth fashion, puzzles, math, science, writing, etc.

◇ This blog is [currently] intended for Hollow Knight related topics but might post something different later on .

◇ This is an artblog with the ocasional reblog, you can check my tags #Alecz'Makingz #BrainRamblez #PrettyArtReblogs #PrettyShitpostReblogs

AUs tags: #HALLOWEST AU #HollowKnightModernAU #My AUs Fanart

◇ Have fun and make a submission! Feel free to send whatever, from the silliest thing to the most borderline stuff [Be patient, I have a lot of ideas but not so much time I will eventually get to it]

[toomany-fandomsatonce]

I am insane so here is my list of nicknames for Tobias Forge. Please give me suggestions for ones I can add.

Tax Fraud

Toblerone Fudge

Toad Frog

Taco Friday

Tutti Fruitti

Toe Fungus

Tooth Fairy

Talking Flemish

Tall Flesh

Toxic Flowers

Technology Frogs

Turbulent Freckles

Thick Face

Tender Fucker

Thigh Floor

Titty Fungus

Tornados Fiddle

Truculent Fig

Territory Fire

Tickly Fractions

Tummy Fights

Teenage Frenchman

Tail Fucker

Tea Finder

Toe Friends

Tag Fights

Tub Fire

Top Front

Tiktok Fuckboy

Tumbling Fuck

Tooth Frog

Tiny Feret

Tumblr Fanboys

Today Federal

Trying Format

Type Formal

Trail Font

Terrorists Fingers

Tale Foreskin

Tuesday Fries

Thursday February

Tutorial Fungi

Tight Fit

Tranquil Form

Ten Feet

Tool Fangs

Trowel Food

Tower Flow

Took Forever

Treatment Favourite

Tormented Faculties

Torture Factory

Tartan Flag

Tingly Function

Twins Fox

Twat Fertility

Turnip Fabric

Tudor Fashion

Train Footage

Take Friendship

Thanks Fan

Telling Friendliness

Terrain Fun

Terror Fin

Told Fool

Toggle Flannel

Trousers Flem

Terzo's Family

Time Flies

Then Filtered

Twig Found

Tiger Fear

T-rex Fringes

Tween False

Twitter Facebook

Titanium Fewer

Taxidermy Frontier

Toepiss Frugal

Topic Feature

Topless Features

Tuned Facial

Tank France

Thanks Finland

Terms Failed

Tickletoes Football

Transparent Fluff

Transgender Federal

Translate Free

Teal Feat

Turquoise Foggy

The Federation

There Following

Teeth Floppy

Troubled Financial

Tobussy Fun

Tobacco Fungal-biologist

Tiebreaker Fluid

Toebeans Flattering

Tyrannosaurus Fillings

Tuna Follicle

Thalerophagous Family-Disturbance

Toyota Ford

[funstealer]

On Friday night 15 January 2016, Jef Montes presented his latest collection RESOLVER during Mercedes Benz FashionWeek Amsterdam. In a catwalk show, he made a personal statement about the current state of the fashion industry, in which a devastating speed and empty hypes are topical issues. For his presentation in February 2015, Montes developed an innovative, in water-soluble fabric constructed from polyvinyl alcohol in collaboration with the TextielMuseum Tilburg. Over the last year, he developed this fabric into a new combination of black and white yarns, which starred in his new collection RESOLVER. The unique material is the base for his rigorous silhouettes, constructed from circular and rectangular parts. During the show of RESOLVER, Montes presented his garments on models that encountered large amounts of water on the catwalk. The initially silver garments melted slowly from the models’ bodies, revealing the black weft yarns as web like textures. The clothes were destroyed and often completely disappeared. The transience of fashion – captured in a show. The poetic statement combined innovation, performance and fashion into a well balanced whole.