#Jude Wallace

[susanchess]

☠︎︎༒︎✞︎🕸 new favorite friend group, i guess ☠︎︎༒︎✞︎🕸

[homoerotikos]

GET ME OUT MY ZONE, I'M JUST TAKIN' COMFORT, SHAWTY

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 6: Athena, Goddess Of Wisdom]

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: 5.2k

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💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Here at the midway point in our journey—like Dante stumbling upon the gates of the Inferno—would it be the right moment to review what’s at stake? Let’s begin.

It’s the end of August. The delegates of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago officially vote to name Aemond the party’s presidential candidate. His ascension is aided by 10,000 antiwar demonstrators who flood into the city and threaten to set it ablaze if Hubert Humphrey is chosen instead. At the end—in his death rattle—Humphrey begs to be Aemond’s running mate, one last humiliation he cannot resist. Humphrey is denied. Eugene McCarthy, dignity intact, boards a commercial flight to his home state of Minnesota without looking back.

Aemond selects U.S. Ambassador to France, Sargent Shriver, to be his vice president. Shriver is a Kennedy by marriage—his wife, JFK’s younger sister Eunice, just founded the Special Olympics—and has previously headed the Office of Economic Opportunity, the Peace Corps, and the Chicago Board of Education. He also served as the architect of the president’s “War on Poverty” before distancing himself from the imploding Johnson administration. Shriver is not a concession to fence-sitting moderates or Southern Dixiecrats, but an embodiment of Aemond’s commitment to unapologetic progressivism. Richard Nixon spends the weekend campaigning in his native California, a gold vein of votes like the mines settlers rushed to in 1848. George Wallace announces that he will run as an Independent. Racists everywhere rejoice.

Phase III of the Tet Offensive is underway in Vietnam; 700 American soldiers have been killed this month alone. Riots break out in military prisons where the U.S. Army is keeping their deserters. The North Vietnamese refuse to allow Pope Paul VI to visit Hanoi on a peace mission. President Johnson calls both Aemond and Nixon to personally inform them of this latest evidence of the communists’ unwillingness to negotiate in good faith. Daeron and John McCain remain in Hỏa Lò Prison. The draft swallows men like the titan Cronus devoured his own children.

In Eastern Europe, the Russians are crushing pro-democracy protests in the largest military operation since World War II as half a million troops roll into Czechoslovakia. In Caswell County, North Carolina, the last remaining segregated school district in the nation is ordered by a federal judge to integrate after years of stalling. On the Fangataufa Atoll in the South Pacific, France becomes the fifth nation to successfully explode a hydrogen bomb. In Mexico City, 300,000 students gather to protest the authoritarian regime of President Diaz Ordaz. In Guatemala, American ambassador John Gordon Mein is murdered by a Marxist guerilla organization called the Rebel Armed Forces. In Columbus, Ohio, nine guards are held hostage during a prison riot; after 30 hours, they’re rescued by a SWAT team.

The latest issue of Life magazine brings worldwide attention to catastrophic industrial pollution in the Great Lakes. The first successful multiorgan transplant is carried out at Houston Methodist Hospital. The Beatles release Hey Jude, the best-selling single of 1968 in the U.S., U.K., Australia, and Canada. NASA’s Apollo lunar landing program plans to launch a crewed shuttle next year, just in time to fulfill John F. Kennedy’s 1962 promise to put a man on the moon “before the end of the decade.” If this is successful, the United States will win the Space Race and prove the superiority of capitalism. If it fails, the martyred astronauts will join all the other ghosts of this apocalyptic age, an epoch born under bad stars.

The night sky glows with the ancient debris of the Aurigid meteor shower. From down here on Earth, Jupiter is a radiant white gleam, visible with the naked eye and admired since humans were making cave paintings and Stonehenge. But Io is a mystery. With a telescope, she becomes a dust mote entrapped by Jupiter’s gravity; to the casual observer, she doesn’t exist at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

What was it like, that very first time? It’s strange to remember. You’re both different people now.

It’s May, 1966. You and Aemond are engaged, due to be married in three short weeks, and if you get pregnant then it’s no harm, no foul. In reality, it will end up taking you over a year to conceive, but no one knows that yet; you are living in the liminal space between what you imagine your life will be and the cold blade of the truth. Aemond has brought you to Asteria for the weekend, an increasingly common occurrence. The Targaryens—minus one, that holdout prodigal son, always glowering from behind swigs of rum and clouds of smoke—have already begun to treat you like a member of the family. The flock of Alopekis yap excitedly and lick your shins. Eudoxia learns your favorite snacks so she can have them ready when you arrive.

One night Aemond takes your hand and leads you to Helaena’s garden, darkness turned to twilight in the artificial luminance of the main house. You can hear distant voices, chatter and laughter, and the Beatles’ Rubber Soul spinning on the record player in the living room like a black hole, gravity that not even light can escape when it is wrenched over the event horizon.

You’re giggling as Aemond pulls you along, faster and faster, weaving through pathways lined with roses and sunflowers and butterfly bushes. Your high heels sink into soft, fertile earth; the air in your lungs is cool and infinite. “Where are we going?”

And Aemond grins back at you as he replies: “To Olympus.”

In the circle of hedges guarded by thirteen gods of stone, Aemond unzips your modest pink sundress and slips your heels off your feet, kneeling like he’s proposing to you again. When you are bare and secretless, he draws you down onto the grass and opens you, claims you, fills you to the brim as the crystalline water of the fountain patters and Zeus hurls his lightning bolts, an eternal storm, unending war. It’s intense in a way it never was with your first boyfriend, a sweet polite boy who talked about feminist theory and followed his enlightened conscience all the way to Vietnam. This isn’t just a pleasant way to pass a Friday night, something to look forward to between differential equations textbooks and calculus proofs. With Aemond it’s a ritual; it’s something so overpowering it almost scares you.

“Aphrodite,” Aemond murmurs against your throat, and when you try to get on top he stops you, pins you to the ground, thrusts hard and deep, and you try not to moan too loudly as you surrender, his weight on you like a prophesy. This is how he wants you. This is where you belong.

Has someone ever stitched you to their side, pushing the needle through your skin again and again as the fabric latticework takes shape, until their blood spills into your veins and your antibodies can no longer tell the difference? He makes you think you’ve forgotten who you were before. He makes you want to believe in things the world taught you were myths.

But that was over two years ago. Now Aemond is not your spellbinding almost-stranger of a fiancé—shrouded in just the right amount of mystery—but your husband, the father of your dead child, the presidential candidate. You miss when he was a mirage. You miss what it felt like to get high on the idea of him, each taste a hit, each touch a rush of toxins to the bloodstream.

Seven weeks after your emergency c-section, you are healing. Your belly no longer aches, your bleeding stops, you can rejoin the living in this last gasp of summer. Ludwika takes you shopping and you pick out new swimsuits; you’ve gone up a size since the baby, and it shows no signs of vanishing. In the fitting room, Ludwika chain-smokes Camel cigarettes and claps when you show her each outfit, ordering you to spin around, telling you that there’s nothing like Oleg Cassini back in Poland. You plan to buy three swimsuits. Ludwika insists you get five. She pays with Otto’s American Express.

That afternoon at home in your blue bedroom, you get changed to join the rest of the family down by the pool, your first swim since Ari was born. You choose Ludwika’s favorite: a dreamy turquoise two-piece with flowing transparent fabric that drapes your midsection. You can still see the dark vertical line of where the doctors stitched you closed. Now you and Aemond match; he got his scar on the floor of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, you earned yours at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. There are gold chains on your wrist and looped around your neck. Warm sunlight and ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

Aemond appears in the doorway and you turn to show him, proud of how you’ve pulled yourself together, how this past year hasn’t put you in an asylum. His right eye catches on your scar and stays there for a long time. Then at last he says: “You don’t have something else to wear?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Labor Day, and Asteria has been descended upon by guests invited to celebrate Aemond’s nomination. The dining room table is overflowing with champagne, Agiorgitiko wine, platters of mini spanakopitas, lamb gyros, pita bread with hummus and tzatziki, feta cheese and cured meats, grilled octopus, baklava, and kourabiethes. Eudoxia is rushing around sweeping up crumbs and shooing tipsy visitors away from antique vases shipped here from Greece. Aemond’s celebrity endorsers include Sammy Davis Jr., Sonny and Cher, Andy Williams, Bobby Darin, Warren Beatty, Shirley MacLaine, Claudine Longet, and a number of politicians; but the most notable attendee is President Lyndon Baines Johnson, shadowed by Secret Service agents. He won’t be making any surprise appearances on the campaign trail for Aemond—in the present political climate, he would be more of a liability than an asset—but he has travelled to Long Beach Island tonight to offer his well-wishes. From the record player thrums Jimi Hendrix’s All Along The Watchtower.

When you finish getting ready and arrive downstairs, you spot Aegon: slouching in a velvet chair over a century old, hair shagging in his eyes, sipping something out of a chipped mug he clasps with both hands, flirting with a bubbly early-twenties campaign staffer. Aegon smiles and waves when he sees you. You wave back. And you think: When did he become the person I look for when I walk into a room?

Now Aemond is beside you in a blue suit—beaming, confident, his glass eye in place, a hand resting on your waist—and Aegon isn’t smiling anymore. He takes a gulp of what is almost certainly straight rum from his mug and returns his attention to the campaign staffer, his lady of the hour. You picture him undressing her on his shag carpet and feel disorienting, violent envy like a bullet.

Viserys is already fast asleep upstairs, but the rest of the family is out en masse to charm the invitees and pose for photographs. Alicent, Helaena, and Mimi—trying very hard to act sober, blinking too often—are chit-chatting with the other political wives. Otto is complaining about something to Criston; Criston is pretending to listen as he stares at Alicent. Ludwika is smoking her Camels and talking to several young journalists who are ogling her, enraptured. Fosco and Sargent Shriver are entertaining a group of guests with a boisterous, lighthearted debate on the merits of Italian versus French cuisine, though they agree that both are superior to Greek. The nannies have brought the eight children to be paraded around before bedtime. All Cosmo wants to do is clutch your hand and “help” you navigate around the living room, warning you not to step on the small, weaving Alopekis. When Mimi attempts to steal her youngest son away, he ignores her, and as she begins to make a scene you rebuke her with a harsh glare. Mimi retreats meekly. She has never argued with you, not once in over two years. You speak for Aemond, and Aemond is a god.

As the children are herded off to their beds by the nannies, Bobby Kennedy—presently serving as a New York senator despite residing primarily on his family’s compound in Massachusetts—approaches to congratulate Aemond. His wife Ethel is a tiny, nasally, scrappy but not terribly bright woman, five months pregnant with her eleventh child, and you have to get away from her like a hand pulled from a hot stove.

“You know, I was considering running,” Bobby says to Aemond, chuckling, good-natured. “But when I saw you get in the race, I thought better of it! Maybe I’ll give it a go in ’76, huh?”

“Hey, kid, what a tough year you’ve had,” Ethel tells you, patting your forearm. You can’t tear your eyes from her small belly. She has ten living children already. I couldn’t keep one. What kind of sense does that make? “We’re real sorry for your trouble, aren’t we, Bobby?”

Now he is nodding somberly. “We are. We sure are. We’ve been praying for you both.”

Aemond is thanking them, sounding touched but entirely collected. You manage some hurried response and then excuse yourself. Your hands are shaking as you cross the room, not really seeing it. You walk right into Lady Bird Johnson. She takes pity on you; she seems to perceive how rattled you are. “Oh Lyndon, look, it’s just who we were hoping to speak to! The next first lady of the United States. And how beautiful you are, just radiant. How do you keep your hair so perfect? That glamorous updo. You never have a single strand out of place.” Lady Bird lays a palm tenderly on your bare shoulder. She has an unusual, angular face, but a wise sort of compassion that only comes from suffering. Her husband is an unrepentant serial cheater. “I’ll make you a list of everything you need to know about the White House. All the quirks of the property, and the hidden gems too!”

“You’re so kind. We’ll see what happens in November…”

“Good evening, ma’am,” President Johnson says, smiling warmly. He’s an ugly man, but there’s something hypnotic that lives inside him and shines through his eyes like the blaze of a lighthouse. He pulls you in through the dark, through the storm; he promises you answers to questions you haven’t thought of yet. LBJ is 6’4 and known for bullying his political adversaries with the so-called “Johnson Treatment”; he leans in and makes rapid-fire demands until they forget he’s not allowed to hit them. “I have to tell you frankly, I don’t envy anyone who inherits that den of rattlesnakes in Washington D.C.”

“Lyndon, don’t frighten her,” Lady Bird scolds fondly.

“Everyone thinks they know what to do about Vietnam,” LBJ plods onwards. “But it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t clusterfuck. If you keep fighting, they call you a murderer. But if you pull the troops out and South Vietnam falls to the communists, every single man lost was for nothing, and you think the families will stand for that? Their kid in a body bag, or his legs blown off, or his brain scrambled? There’s no easy answer. It’s a goddamn bitch of a quagmire.”

Lady Bird offers you a sympathetic smirk. Sorry about all this unpleasantness, she means. When he gets himself worked up, I can’t stop him. But you find yourself feeling sorry for President Johnson. It will be difficult for him to learn how to fade into disgraced obscurity after once being so omnipotent, so beloved. Reinvention hurts like hell: fevers raging, bones mending, healing flesh that itches so ferociously you want to claw it off.

LBJ gives Lady Bird a look, quick but meaningful. She acquiesces. This has happened a thousand times before. “It was so nice talking to you, dear,” she tells you, then crosses the living room to pay her respects to Alicent.

The president steps closer, looming, towering. The Johnson Treatment?? you think, but no; he isn’t trying to intimidate you. He’s just curious.

“Do you know what Aemond’s plan is for ‘Nam?” LBJ asks, eyes urgent, voice low. “I’m sure he has one. He’s sworn to end the draft as soon as he gets into office, but how is he going to make sure the South Vietnamese can fend off the North themselves? We’re trying to train the bastards, but if we left they’d fold in months. It would be the first war the U.S. ever lost. Does he understand that?”

“He doesn’t really discuss it with me.” That’s true; you know his policies, but only because they are a constant subject of conversation within the family, something you all breathe like oxygen.

“We can’t let Nixon win,” LBJ continues. “It’s mass suicide to leave the country in his hands. The man can’t hold his liquor anymore, getting robbed by Kennedy in ’60 broke something in him. He gets sloshed and shoves his aids around, makes up conspiracies in his head. He’s a paranoid little prick. He’ll surveille the American people. He’ll launch a nuke at Moscow.”

You honestly don’t know what he expects you to say. “I’ll pass the message along to Aemond.”

“People love you, Mrs. Targaryen.” LBJ watching you closely. “Believe it or not, they used to love me too. But I still remember how to play the game. You’re the only reason Aemond is leading the polls in Florida. You can get him other states too. Jack needed Jackie. Aemond needs you. And you’ve had tragedies, and that’s a damn shame. But don’t you miss an opportunity. You take every disappointment, every fucked up cruelty of life and find a way to make it work for you. You pin it to your chest like a goddamn medal. Every single scar makes you look more mortal to those people going to the ballot box in November. You want them to be able to see themselves in you. It helps the mansions and the millions go down smoother.”

“President Johnson!” Aegon says as he saunters over, huge mocking grin. He thumps a closed fist against the Texan’s broad chest; the Secret Service agents standing ten feet away observe this sternly. “How thoughtful of you to be here, taking time out of your busy schedule, squeezing us in between war crimes.”

“The mayor of Trenton,” LBJ jabs.

“The butcher of Saigon.”

Now the president is no longer amused. “You’ve never accomplished anything in your whole damn life, son. Your obituary will be the size of a postage stamp. I’m looking forward to reading it someday soon.” He leaves, rejoining Lady Bird at the opposite end of the room.

You frown at Aegon, disapproving. You’re dressed in a sparkling, royal blue gown that Aemond chose. “That was unnecessary.”

Aegon is wearing an ill-fitting green shirt—half the buttons undone—khaki pants, and tan moccasins. “I just did you a favor.”

“What happened to your new girlfriend? Shouldn’t she be getting railed in your basement right now? Did she have a prior commitment? Did she have a spelling test to study for? Those can be tricky, such complex words. Juvenile. Inappropriate. Infidelity.”

“You know what he brags about?” Aegon says, meaning LBJ. “That he’s fucked more women by accident than John F. Kennedy ever did on purpose.”

“That sounds…logistically challenging.”

“He’s a lech. He’s a freak. He tells everyone on Capitol Hill how big his cock is. He takes it out and swings it around during meetings.”

“And that’s all far less than admirable, but he’s not going to do something like that around me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s not an idiot,” you say impatiently. “He was perfectly civil. And I was getting interesting advice.”

Aegon rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry I crashed your cute little pep talk with Lyndon Johnson, the most hated man on the planet.”

“I guess you can’t stop Aemond from touching me, so you have to terrorize LBJ instead.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon hisses, and his venom stuns you. And now you’re both trapped: you loosed the arrow, he proved you hit the mark. He’s flushing a deep, mortified red. Your guts are twisting with remorse.

“Aegon, wait, I didn’t mean—”

He whirls and storms off, shoving his way through the crowd. People glare at him as they clutch their glasses and plates, sighing in that What else do you expect from the worthless son? sort of way. You’re still gaping blankly at the place where Aegon stood when Aemond finds you, snakes a hand around the back of your neck, and whispers through the painstakingly-arranged wisps of hair that fall around your ear: “Follow me.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command. You trail him through the living room, into the foyer, and through the front door, not knowing what he wants. Outside the moon is a sliver; the light from the main house makes the stars hard to see. “Aemond, you’ll never believe the conversation I just had with LBJ. He really unloaded, I think the stress is driving him insane. I have to tell you what he said about—”

“Later.” And this is jarring; Aemond doesn’t put anything before strategy. He grabs your hand as he turns into Helaena’s garden, and only then do you understand what he wants. Instinctively, your legs lock up and your feet stop moving. Aemond tugs you onward. He wants it to be like the very first time. He intends to start over with you, the dawning of a new age in the dead of night.

Hidden in the circle of hedges, he takes your face roughly in his hands and kisses you, drinks you down like a vampire, consumes you like wildfire. But your skull echoes with panic. I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want another child with him. “Aemond…”

He doesn’t hear you, or acts like he doesn’t, or mistakes it for a murmur of desire, or chooses to believe it is. He has you down on the grass under the vengeful gaze of Zeus, the fountain splashing, the sounds of the house a low foreign drone. He yanks off your panties, but he doesn’t want you naked like he always did before. He pushes the hem of your shimmering cobalt gown up to your hips and unbuckles his trousers. And you realize as he’s touching you, as he’s easing himself into you: He doesn’t want to have to look at my scar.

You can’t ignore him, you can’t pretend it’s not happening. He’s too big for that. It’s a biting fullness that demands to be felt. So you kiss him back, and knot your fingers in his short hair like you used to, and try to remember the things you always said to him before. And when Aemond is too absorbed to notice, you look away from him, from the statue of Zeus, and peer up into the stone face of Athena instead: the goddess who never married and who knows the answer to every question.

“I love you,” Aemond says when it’s over, marveling at the slopes of your face in the dim ethereal light. “Everything will be right again soon. Everything will be perfect.”

You conjure up a smile and nod like you believe him.

“What did LBJ say?”

“Can I tell you later tonight? After the party, maybe? I just need a few minutes.”

“Of course.” And now Aemond pretends to be patient. He buckles his belt and returns to the main house, his blood coursing with the possibilities only you can make real, his skin damp with your sweat.

For a while—ten minutes, twenty minutes—you lie there on the cool grass wondering what it was like for all those mortals and nymphs, being pinned down by Zeus and then having Hera try to kill them afterwards, raising ill-fated reviled bastards they couldn’t help but love. What is heaven if the realm of the immortals is so cruel? Why does the god of justice seem so immune to it?

When at last you rise and walk back towards the house, you find Mimi at the edge of the garden. She’s on her knees and retching into a rose bush; she’s cut her face on the thorns, but she hasn’t noticed yet. She’s groaning; she seems lost.

You reach for her, gripping her bony shoulders. “Mimi, here, let’s get you upstairs…”

“No,” she blubbers, tears streaming down her scratched cheeks. “Just go away. Leave me.”

“Mimi—”

“No!” she roars, a mournful hemorrhage as she slaps your hands until you release her.

“You don’t have to be this way,” you tell her, distraught. “You can give up drinking. We’ll help you, me and Fosco and Ludwika. You can start over. You can be healthy and present again, you can live a real life.”

Mimi stares up at you, her grey eyes glassy and bloodshot but with a vicious, piercing honesty. “My husband hates me. My kids don’t know I exist. What the hell do I have to be sober for?”

You weren’t expecting this. You don’t know what to say. “We can help make the world better.”

“The world would be better without me in it.”

Then Mimi curls up on the grass under the rose bush, and stays there until you return with Fosco to drag her upstairs to her empty bed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon, you’re lying on a lounge chair by the pool. Tomorrow the family will leave Asteria and embark upon a vigorous campaign schedule that will continue, with very few breaks, until Election Day on Tuesday, November 5th. The children are splashing and shrieking in the pool with Fosco, but you aren’t looking at them. You’re staring across the sun-drenched emerald lawn at the Atlantic Ocean. You’re envisioning all the bones and splinters of sunken ships that must litter the silt of the abyss; you’re thinking that it’s a graveyard with no headstones, no memory. Your swimsuit is a red one-piece. Your eyes are shielded by large black Ray Bans aviator sunglasses. Your gaze flicks up to the cloudless blue sky, where all the stars and planets are invisible.

Jupiter has nearly a hundred moons; the largest four were discovered by Galileo in 1610. Europa is a smooth white cosmic marble with a crust of ice, beautiful, immaculate. Ganymede, the largest moon in our solar system and the only satellite with its own magnetic field, is rumored to have a vast underground saltwater ocean that may contain life. Callisto is dark and indomitable, riddled with impact craters; because of her dynamic atmosphere and location beyond Jupiter’s radiation belts, she is considered the best location for possible future crewed missions to the Jovian system. But Io is a wasteland. She has no water and no oxygen. Her only children are 400 active volcanoes, sulfur plumes and lava flows, mountains of silicate rock higher than Mount Everest, cataclysmic earthquakes as her crust slips around on a mantle of magma. Her daily radiation levels are 36 times the lethal limit for humans. If Hades had a home in our corner of the galaxy, it would be Io. She glows ruby and gold with barren apocalyptic fury. You can feel yourself turning poisonous like she is. You can feel your skin splitting open as the lava spills out.

Aegon trots out of the house—red swim trunks, cheap red plastic sunglasses, no shirt, a beach towel slung around his neck, flip flops—and kicks your chair. “Get up. We’re going sailing.”

“I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

“Great, because I’m not asking you to talk. I’m telling you to get in my boat.”

You don’t reply. You don’t think you can without your voice cracking. Aegon crouches down beside your chair and pushes your sunglasses up into your Brigitte Bardot-inspired hair so he can see your face. Your eyes are pink, wet, desperately sad. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead as he studies you. Gently, wordlessly, he pats your cheek twice and lowers your sunglasses back over your eyes. Then he stands up again and offers you his hand.

“Let’s go,” Aegon says, softly this time. You take his hand and follow him down to the boathouse.

Five vessels are currently kept there. Aegon’s sailboat is a 25-foot Wianno Senior sloop, just roomy enough for a few passengers. He’s had it since long before you married into the Targaryen family. It is white with hand-painted gold accents; the name Sunfyre adorns the stern. He unmoors the boat, pushes it out into the open water, and raises the sails.

You glide eastbound over the glittering crests of waves, slowly at first, then faster as the sails catch the wind. Aegon has one hand on the rudder, the other grasping the ropes. And the farther you get from shore, the smaller Asteria seems, and the Targaryen family, and the presidential election, and the United States itself. Now all that exists is this boat: you, Aegon, the squawking gulls, the school of mackerel, the ocean. The sun beats down; the breeze rips strands of your hair free. The battery-powered record player is blasting White Room by Cream. When you are far enough from land that no journalists would be able to get a photo, Aegon takes two joints and his Zippo out of the pocket of his swim trunks. He puts both joints between his lips, lights them, and passes you one. Then he stretches out beside you on the deck, gazing up at the September sky.

You ask as your muscles unravel and your thoughts turn light and easy to share: “Why did you bring me out here?”

“So you can drown yourself,” Aegon says, and you both laugh. “Nah. I used to go sailing all the time when I was a teenager. It always made me feel better. It was the only place where I could really be alone.”

You consider the math. “Wow. You haven’t been a teenager since before I was in kindergarten.”

“It’s weird to think about. You don’t seem that young.”

“Thanks, I guess. You don’t seem that old.”

“Maybe we’re meeting in the middle.” He inhales deeply and then exhales in a rush of smoke. “What do you think, should I get an earring?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It might shock Otto so bad it kills him.”

“I’ll get two.” And then Aegon says: “It’s not cool for you to mock me.”

You are dismayed; you didn’t mean to hurt him. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. You were mocking me. You mocked me about the receipt under my ashtray, and then you mocked me again last night. I’m up for a lot of things, but I can’t handle that. Okay?”

“Okay.” You turn your head so you can see him: shaggy blonde hair, stubble, perpetual sunburn, the softness of his belly and his chest, flesh you long to vanish into like rain through parched earth. “Aegon?”

He looks over at you. “Io?”

“I don’t want Aemond to touch me either.”

He’s surprised; not by what you feel, but because you’ve said it aloud, a treason like Prometheus giving mankind the gift of fire. “What are we gonna do about it?”

If you were the goddess of wisdom, maybe you’d know.

[imnyt]

Nicole Wallace followed Jude after she recently unfollowed him. I guess she had to make sure he wasn’t dating Aitana lol.

What’s wrong with these women? 😭

[the-trans-advice-blog]

what r some of ur fav masculine names?

I have a few!!

Alfie, August , Beck, Cal, Douglas, Everett, Francis, Graham, Griffin, Harrison, Jude, Jonah, Joel, Jay, Jory, Kendall, Logan, Monroe, Noel, Owen, Parker, Quinn, Rowan, Reese, Simon, Sebastian, Stevie, Teddy, Wyatt, Wallace

I tried to pick one for every letter !

[prettymvgic]

my muses ; this is temporary until i figure out how to make things mobile friendly !

FEMALES : poppy : age unknown, pixie, currently captive by a vampire - madelaine petsch. kiana murphy : 22, college student, waitress - samantha logan. kimberly vaughn : 24, 1990's - young!julia roberts. olivia harrington: 22, college student - grace van dien. robyn bailey : 29, model & influencer - laura harrier. sidney prescott : 17-22, scream 1-3 - neve campbell. samantha palmer : 18-23, hs student/college student - katherine langford. marianne parker : 55, ranger wife - diane lane. katherine foster : 42, conwoman - anne hathaway. andrea "annie" bennett : 41, inn owner & keeper, starting over - bethany joy lenz. mercedes hart: 27, influencer & industry plant, upcoming musical artist - ryan destiny. bristol harper : 35, online jewelry store owner, mother to two - hilary duff. evangelina constance : 48, owner of a cult - carla gugino. allison barnes : 38, former nurse now surviving the apocalypse - lauren cohen. lacey thomas : 18-20, college student - nicole wallace. seline castillo : 33, owner of flattop bar & grill, more info upon request - vanessa hudgens. cassandra foxx : better known in her world as ALASKA, 30, sugar baby/escort, more info upon request - vanessa hudgens. marzia vadala : 34, italian, jewelry store owner - phoebe tonkin. gianna ortiz : 34, spanish, receptionist for a corportation - ana de armas. mariana ruiz : 19-22, spanish, hs or college student - alexa demie. holland st. clair : 25, model trying to get her debut, trans-female - hunter schafer. angeline swanson : 23, pornstar - sabrina carpenter. first last : 40, prosecutor - kerry washington.

MALES : marshall "the judge" owens : 49, apocalyptic cult member - andrew lincoln. jude mitchell : 34, lives in an apartment in nyc, struggling artist - andrew garfield. david bascom : 26, 1950's, closeted homosexual - harry styles. casey theriot : 27, nomad. - tom holland. pak dae-hyun : 23, idol struggling with fame - junkook. patrick galloway : 29, blackballed actor starting over - nicholas galitzine. choi minho, 25, establishing actor, mostly indie films waiting for his break - kim jiwoong ( aki. ) hak su-jin : 31, book store / cafe manager in seoul - woo do-hwan. kai kahinu : 19, younger brother to zane, new zealand native, maori - matthew sato. wihan chen : 24, indie musician - first kanaphan puitrakul. ( tashi. ) felix maynard : 30, owner of tart & thyme restaurant, chef - will poulter. caskey dallas : 18-23, outcast, more info upon request - cole sprouse. robin sallow : 28, manager of off beat records, more info upon request - thomas doherty. jesse dylan : 18-30 ( 1985 - 1997 ), teen/convict, more info upon request - dacre montgomery. dean maddox : 22, college student, more info upon request - hero fiennes tiffin. simon parker : 29, lead singer & guitar player of killin' time, more info upon request - joe keery. maverick reed : 26, fisherman's son - rudy pankow. hwan van : 26, mechanic - cha eun-woo choi daehyun : 20, idol, au!fae - felix lee. trevor elliot : 24, college, indie musician, au!fame - felix mallard. kim hanuel : 26, ceo- yeo jin-goo. andrew baker : 19, homeless. - brandon flynn. casper cromwell : forever 20, ghostboy haunting a house. - louis patridge.

THEYS : zane kahinu, 22, older sibling to kai, new zealand native, maori - zoe terakes.

[kwebtv]

Murder in Texas - NBC - May 3-4. 1981

Crime Drama (2 episodes)

Running Time: 200 minutes

Stars:

Katharine Ross as Ann Kurth Hill

Sam Elliott as Dr. John Hill

Farrah Fawcett as Joan Robinson Hill

Andy Griffith as Ash Robinson

G. W. Bailey as Richard "Racehorse" Haynes

Barry Corbin as Dist. Atty. McMasters

Pamela Myers as Mary

Craig T. Nelson as Jack Ramsey

Royce Wallace as Wilma

Dimitra Arliss as Gina Meier

Jude Farese as Casselli

Philip Sterling as Dr. Helpern

Vernon Weddle as Dr. Joe

Lesley Woods as Reah Robinson

Parley Baer as Ann's attorney

Murder in Texas was nominated for a 1982 Golden Globe Award for Best Mini-Series or Motion Picture Made for TV. In addition, Andy Griffith received his only Emmy nomination for his portrayal of Ash Robinson. (Wikipedia)

[violenceviolence-rp]

Totally Mundane Human AU Wally that I'm itching to properly doodle now, have some thoughts about Wallace the Entertainer:

Voiceclaim: if Genesis P-Orridge was a heavy smoker, because Throbbing Gristle means the world to me

Height/Body type: short for a dude but not where it matters to him, "petite" bone structure, wiry lightly-muscled frame of a stimulant addict

A shock-comedy "performance artist" born in Cheshire, England, Wallace Punch's Variety Act has been described by the few critics brave enough to stomach its entirety as "a one-man pantomime of The Aristocrats"--to paraphrase the sex-shop owner in Se7en, "the sort of guy who pisses in a cup on stage and then drinks it". Lots of prop-based humor and dead baby jokes, once landed himself in the hospital with salmonella after biting the head off a plucked dead chicken, another time was banned from the premises for bleeding all over the place when he pierced his nipples with safety pins. He has a small but dedicated fanbase of edgy groupies and is notorious for being mediocre in the sack whenever he does bed them; while this version of Wally isn't implied to be an outright rapist his incel energy is OFF THE CHARTS and if he starts joking about roofies that unfortunately means he likes you. Surprisingly not a drinker given his hair-trigger temper, Wallace prefers club drugs and is very casual about being hooked on amphetamines, definitely not above buying adderall from teenagers despite being 30-something--very "Hello fellow youths" at whatever party he's crashing.

While not a remotely capable puppeteer, Wallace's favorite prop is an antique, one-of-a-kind ventriloquist dummy that he found for dirt cheap in a Midwestern pawn shop--for whatever reason, the dealer was eager to get rid of it, probably because its lifelike venom-green eyes and chipped red smile are incredibly creepy. The fans love when he hauls out Jude Wood's paint-splattered trunk because that means things are about to get extra vulgar--one legendary show that may still circulate as a grainy recording on weird websites veered into x-rated territory when Wallace, high on ecstasy and having just hit an audience member's meth pipe, used Jude's hand to masturbate to a spectacular finish (and applause). Ever since that performance Wallace has felt an attachment to Jude that surpasses anything he's felt for a possession, animal, and honestly most people--"agalmatophilia" isn't a word in his vocabulary but that's precisely what it is; MDMA is a funny drug. Because he acquired the puppet while on tour across the pond he gives it a "stupid Yank accent" (a raspy, poor approximation of my Jimmy's voice) that he only seems to be able to do when he's actually holding Jude; regardless of in-universe gags if I ever actually write something terrible with this man, Jude is a completely inanimate object* being subjected to one-sided conversations and Wallace should probably lay off the ketamine (which he regularly stores inside of Jude, along with other drug paraphernalia, a skin mag and a balisong).

Being Mundane Human AU, while a transgressive, ornery, destructive, nasty bastard, Wallace Punch is not a murderer, doesn't pose any particular threat to animals (outside of yelling at his flatmate's dog Jamesy whenever it gets in his room) and will actually take "no" for an answer (which happens a lot). Other than the Obligatory Puppetfuckery and likely exhibitionism (as is the case with everyone who pursues fame) I'm not sure what he's into, nothing illegal or deadly though. In another departure from the usual bullshit he doesn't have any body-image issues or particularly weird ideas about gender roles, you know, beyond typical male misogyny--sometimes he wants to wear a fuckin dress because it's cute, doesn't make him anything other than a dude in a dress. He also has shitty stick-n-poke tattoos and self-done piercings but I haven't decided what those are yet.

Is this just an excuse to explore an explicitly British and extra-pathetic version of Wallace? Probably.

* Although. Wouldn't It Be Funny If this actually takes place in the same Unfamiliar timeline where Jimmy ends up besting Slappy, who goes permanently dormant after he dies as intended, and Wallace Punch really is Mr Wood reincarnated as a human with no memories of his past life, forever fated to seek out the custom-built partner unable to return his affections. That's such an unnecessary tangle in the narrative lemniscate. How fitting for a hagfish. Sure why not.

[themomsandthecity]

Bryce, Jordan, Jude, and 200+ More of the Best Gender Neutral Baby Names

There are plenty of reasons you might want a shortlist of gender neutral baby names. For instance, if you're not finding out the gender of your baby before their born, but you want to have a name decided on ahead of time - picking a name that works for any gender is the perfect solve. Or maybe you just prefer gender neutral names to baby names that are more traditionally masculine or feminine (although, of course, we love using a baby boy name for girls!) Gender neutral baby names cut across categories. You can find gender neutral names amongst Victorian-era baby names, trendy names, and more unique picks, which means you can find the perfect gender neutral baby name no matter what "vibe" of name you're going for. And to get your creativity going, we rounded up more than 200 unisex names that will suit your baby no matter what. Ahead, find some of our favorite gender-neutral names for babies, from A to Z. A * Adair * Adan * Addison * Ade * Adrian * Aiden * Ainsley * Alby * Alex * Ali * Amari * Andy * Angel * Ari * Ariel * Aries * Ash * Asher * Aspen * Atlas * Aubrey * August * Austen * Avery * B * Baker * Bailey * Bali * Banks * Bellamy * Beckham * Berkeley * Billie * Blaine * Blair * Blake * Bobby * Bowen * Brett * Briar * Brighton * Briley * Brinley * Brooklyn * Bryce * C * Caelan * Cairo * Camden * Cameron * Campbell * Carey * Carson * Carter * Casey * Cassidy * Celyn * Chandler * Charlie * Chris * Cody * Colby * Cole * Collins * Corey * Cove * D * Dakota * Dale * Dallas * Dana * Dane * Darryl * Declan * Delta * Devin * Dorian * Drew * Dylan * E * Easton * Eli * Elliot * Ellis * Ellison * Ember * Emerson * Emory * Evan * Ezra * F * Fallon * Finley * Florian * Flynn * Frances * Frankie * G * Gabriel * Gale * Glenn * Grayson * Grey * H * Harley * Harper * Hayden * Hunter * I * Indiana * Indigo * J * James * Jamie * Jayden * Jaylen * Jesse * Jordan * Jude * Julian * Juniper * Justice * K * Kaden, * Kai * Keegan * Kelly * Kendall * Kennedy * Kerry * Knox * Kyle * L * Lake * Landon * Landry * Lane * Lee * Lennon * Lennox * Lincoln * Linden * Logan * London * Lou * Lucian * Lumi * M * Mackenzie * Madison * Marley * Mason * Max * Maxwell * Micah * Milan * Mina * Monroe * Montana * Morgan * N * Nash * Nevada * Nico * Noah * Noel * O * Oakley * Ollie * Ore * Ozzie * P * Palmer * Paris * Parker * Pat * Perri * Peyton * Piper * Phoenix * Q * Quinn * R * Reagan * Reed * Reese * Reign * Remy * Rey * Riley * River * Roan * Robin * Rory * Roux * Rowan * Royal * Rudy * Ryan * Ryder * Rylan * S * Sage * Salem * Sam * Santana * Sawyer * Saylor * Scout * Seven * Shannon * Shawn * Shiloh * Skylar * Sloane * Spencer * Sterling * Stevie * Sunny * Sydney * T * Tanner * Tatum * Taylor * Terry * Theo * Tony * Tory * Tracy * Tyler * U * Umber * Unique * Uri * V * Val * Vesper * * W * Wallace * West * Winter * Wrennyn * Wyatt * Wynne * X * Xoan * Y * Yael * Z * Zion https://www.popsugar.com/family/Gender-Neutral-Baby-Names-34485564?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=tumblr

[only4dagossip]

https://www.tumblr.com/only4dagossip/772387609162989568/nicole-wallace-followed-jude-after-she-recently?source=share

it’s funny seeing celebrities be fan girls cause me too sis 😭😭 lowkey she’s brave for doing that on her main

her way of shooting her shot i guess👏👏👏

[susanchess]

✦✧✦✧𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜.✦✧✦✧𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸𝚅.✦✧✦✧

can't wait for more Anthony/Reiji/Jude stuff.

[brightlydim]

I realized I haven’t drawn Jude in a while so here ya go :)

[anxious-alyssia]

I'm just sitting here when I randomly start crying because

Odysseus made it home to his wife and son.

Cardan is confident in his love for Jude and he knows she loves him just as much.

Aaron got to marry Ella.

Nikolai and Zoya are happy together.

Matthias died.

Dick loves his family and his friends so fucking much.

Sabrina gets her parents back, and she marries Puck.

Meg and Charles Wallace will always be connected.

Kaz found people who-more or less- care about him.

Klance is not canon.

Holly changed Artemis and he hates loves her for it.

Apollo loves his kids way more than zeus thinks he should.

Jason Grace didn't deserve that.

Eight died and Seven couldn't kill Five.

Fitz will never be the same.

Enola isn't alone.

Christian Dean and literally everyone he knows.

Itachi and Sasuke.

Vincent and Rody.

Syaoran and Sakura.

Henry and Alex.

Damen and Laurent.

Mychael.

Nimona.

Blossick.

...

Then I started sobbing cuz I'm crying over fictional people while listening to music, but the feels are really strong- I'm drowning, guys.

🫠

[wutbju]

Jeffrey Rozell, BJU Class of 1981.

Jeffrey Allan Rozell, passed away peacefully at his home in Franklin, Tennessee, June 30, 2024, at the age of 64. He is proceeded in death by his son, Bradley Rozell, his mother, Ida Fay Rozell (Robert) Frayer, and his father, James Rozell Sr. He is survived by his wife, Cynthia of 28 years and their blended family of four. Chad Wallace, Andrew (Amanda) Rozell, Jordan (Laura) Wallace, Rachel (Garret)Rozell–Pickles-Laski. As well as his brother, Jim (Laura) Rozell, sister, Robin, (Gary) Whiting, and grandchildren, Preston Wallace, Leila Wallace, Jackson Anders, Emmett Rozell, Olivia Rozell, Samantha Rozell, William Pickles, Violet Pickles, Hannah Rozell, Lillian Pickles, and Luke Pickles. Also survived by his stepmother, Martha Rozell, and many nieces and nephews.

Jeff began his career at EDS, after acquiring a bachelor degree from Bob Jones University. He relocated from Michigan to Tennessee working with EDS at the Saturn Plant in Spring Hill Tennessee. Later he joined LifeWay Christian Resources serving in multiple positions, lastly as Associate Vice President, Technology Division. After 20 years at LifeWay, Jeff then set out on his own and established his company Teleo Consulting, LLC. The expertise and dedication to his work were matched only by his commitment to bettering the community.

Jeff was a board member with Habitat for Humanity and used his business expertise to mentor veterans in leadership roles. Despite facing the challenges of cancer, Jeff’s fighting spirit never wavered. He approached every obstacle with the same courage and determination that characterized his entire life. Jeff will be remembered not only for his love for friends and family, but for his role as “Pappy” to his 11 grandchildren.

Visitation will be held on July 15th starting at 10 AM. A Celebration of Life Service will follow immediately at Noon. A graveside service for the family will be at 2 PM at Christ Church Memorial Gardens. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made in Jeff’s memory to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital (stjude.org) or Tunnel to Towers (t2t.org).

[imnyt]

lmao not nicole wallace's fans begging jude to follow her back and making ship videos already

Ewwwww

[ulkaralakbarova]

New York in the 1920s. Max Perkins, a literary editor is the first to sign such subsequent literary greats as Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald. When a sprawling, chaotic 1,000-page manuscript by an unknown writer falls into his hands, Perkins is convinced he has discovered a literary genius. Credits: TheMovieDb. Film Cast: Max Perkins: Colin Firth Thomas Wolfe: Jude Law Aline Bernstein: Nicole Kidman Louise Saunders: Laura Linney F. Scott Fitzgerald: Guy Pearce Ernest Hemingway: Dominic West Zelda Fitzgerald: Vanessa Kirby John Wheelock: Demetri Goritsas Assistant Editor: Harry Attwell Bertha Perkins: Angela Ashton Zippy Perkins: Eve Bracken Julia Wolfe: Gillian Hanna John Wheelock: Corey Johnson Eleanor, Perkins’ Maid: Miquel Brown Scribner’s Staff: Rosy Benjamin Mabel Wolfe: Elaine Caulfield Director: Richard Dempsey Jane Perkins: Katya Watson Peggy Perkins: Lorna Doherty Nancy Perkins: Makenna McBrierty Miss Wyckoff: Lucy Briers James, Mailroom Clerk: Ray Strasser King Scribner’s Staff: David Altaner Scribner’s Staff: Charles Dinsdale Scribner’s Staff: Erick Hayden Scribner’s Staff: Kenneth Hazeldine Scribner’s Staff: Oliver King Scribner’s Staff: Alex Large Scribner’s Staff: Charlotte Longfield Scribner’s Staff: Nick Mercer Scribner’s Staff: Kim Rosenfeld Scribner’s Staff: James Wallace Purring Woman: Katherine Kingsley Guest at Purring Woman’s Table: Richard Clark Guest at Purring Woman’s Table: Stella McCabe Guest at Purring Woman’s Table: Christopher Oram Guest at Purring Woman’s Table: Mike Vessey Actress: Maddie Rice Actor: Ian Drysdale Lighting Technician: Alistair Sanderson Lighting Technician: Alexander Scrivens Woman at Bar: Cassandra Nina Woman at Bar: Pamela Okoroafor Band: Kenji Fenton Band: Neville Malcolm Band: Winston Rollins Band: Chris Storr Band: Frank Tontoh Dancer: Jamal Crawford Dancer: Kemi Durosinmi Dancer: Jo Dyce Dancer: Kevin Ketti Dancer: Lesley Mutombo-Agbepa Dancer: Joshua Robinson Grand Central Station Conductor: Andrew Byron John Hopkins Hospital Nurse: Jane Perry Funeral Minister: James Bierman Effie Wolfe: Trina Dillon Frank Wolfe: Gary Thomsett Frederick Wolfe: Mark Phillimore Film Crew: Producer: Michael Grandage Standby Property Master: Phil Bull Producer: James Bierman Screenplay: John Logan Casting: Jina Jay Costume Design: Jane Petrie Original Music Composer: Adam Cork Editor: Chris Dickens Production Design: Mark Digby Executive Producer: A. Scott Berg Director of Photography: Ben Davis Conceptual Design: Elo Soode Executive Producer: James J. Bagley Makeup Artist: Christine Blundell Makeup Artist: Laura Morse Special Effects Makeup Artist: Nathaniel De’Lineadeus Special Effects Makeup Artist: Chris Lyons Art Direction: Alex Baily Art Direction: Gareth Cousins Set Decoration: Michelle Day Executive Producer: Tim Bevan Executive Producer: Nik Bower Executive Producer: Tim Christian Executive Producer: Ivan Dunleavy Executive Producer: Arielle Tepper Madover Executive Producer: Deepak Nayar Producer: Tracey Seaward Assistant Foley Artist: Lilly Blazewicz Foley Mixer: Glen Gathard Foley Artist: Jack Stew Foley Artist: Andrea King Foley Mixer: Jemma Riley-Tolch Movie Reviews: Reno: **Behind a great writer, there’s a genius editor!** I felt the title ‘Genius’ was not appropriate for how the story revolved in the film. It was more like a commitment and priority given to those undertaking than any other stuffs and that’s why it looked like a genius from others eyes. Though I won’t deny the experience always comes very handy. This film tells the story of ant editor and how he meets one of the best writers of his time. But they two together give the literature world some masterpiece works and that’s the tale the film very genuinely presented to us. This story takes place around the 1930s. An enthusiastic writer and a genius editor develop a strong bond, especially from their professional, but it goes beyond that. When both the families struggle while these two men completely dissolved with their works. So the takes from di...