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katy-books · 27 days ago
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Just found out that Coca Cola replaced the masterpieces below with a 100% AI generated piece of crap.
1995 ads ⬇⬇⬇
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What idiot in a board meeting thought it was a good idea to replace THIS!? Of course, the worst thing is that one of the wealthiest companies in the world didn't pay a single actor or artist to make their Christmas ad! Instead using computers that are trained on the work of real people without compensation or their consent. Disgusting.
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@coca-cola I'm switching to Pepsi.
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ohcaptains · 5 months ago
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knuckle velvet
synopsis. he walks you home, then lets himself in.
pairing. logan howlett x f!reader. tags. [18+] dubious consent, vaginal penetration, female receiving oral sex, spitting. honey don't feed it, it'll come back type beat.
Some deep part of Canada, where everything was white. Snowstorms that swarmed through the sky, and the only warmth you could find came from the bottom of a bottle.
The wood floor of the sticky bar you worked in was soaked from frost covered boots – haphazardly scraped across the welcome mat, owners preoccupied with getting their first drink than keeping the place tidy.
You existed there, behind the bar that patrons lent against, like a metal cage with leering onlookers. They paid in drinks, but you took the money home as tips, your warmth stoked in a fireplace.
How you’d ended up there in that forgotten part of the world, you didn’t know.
Perhaps you’d followed a narrow path, one strung out with thorns and rubbish, but the money was okay.
When it got slow, and there wasn’t much else to do, your boss let you read a bit, too, while you sipped on your endless supply of Coca-Cola.
At the end of your shift, your teeth were fuzzy from all the sugar. 
An easy existence, but some nights, the patrons got too friendly.
They were fresh off their trucks, looking for some place warm to bury for the night, but you weren’t offering.
So, you’d peer at them, watch them make a fool of themselves as they spewed putrid words in your general direction – alcohol and lack of sleep causing the floor to sway from beneath their feet.
It was always the new boys who would try it.
Risk it all for a chance between your thighs, unaware of the hound sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a whiskey and a vendetta.
The first time he fought for you, the air had changed. Gone cloudy with the chance of a brawl – that sixth sense that all bartenders have switching on.
“Lady said no, ain’t she?” he bellowed from across the bar.
The voice thick with smoke and alcohol, you recognised him as the guy who’d been drinking whiskey all night, but he was as sober as a nun. No stumble to his step, or slur to his cadence, either.
He was built like an oak tree. You noticed when you served him. Slid him his drink and gazed at the sheer bulk of him. At the weathered, handsome age to his face, to the spray of grey in his brown hair.
His thick arms were snugly buried under a button up shirt, and you didn’t see, but rather imagined, the way his muscular legs were stuffed into jeans, and the way his size 12’s rested against the hardwood.
His eyes though, were hiding something. Milky brown concealing his curiosity – easily done with the hard panes of his face.
You imagined letting him take you home, and you thought about being friendly, before a whisper in the back of your cranium told you to back off.
Perhaps safer.
You didn’t know where this man had come from, let alone where he’d been. So, you continued to serve him drinks, and tried to ignore the quiet hum of his presence, until the hum turned to a crash.
The patron was scorned. He paused, and turned to the end of the bar, where the brown eyed stranger was waiting. “What’s it to you?” he slurred.
But the man with the whiskey wasn’t looking to him. He sipped his drink, and said, “she said no. You don’t remember your manners?”
The bar adorned an eerie quiet. Nerves sat low in your belly, heart picking up speed.   “This guy serious?” he asked you.
You went to say something, but he was already throwing words at the stranger.
“She yours or something?” “It matter?” “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” The stranger scoffed, and brought his drink to his lips, “whatever bub.”
“We got a problem?” the man uttered, stalking towards him, but his friend took him by the arm and whispered something in his ear, forcing him to deflate.
You wondered what he’d uttered. Whether there were rumours about the guy – a reputation you didn’t know about.
Brown eyes didn’t bat an eye when the man and his buddy slid out the door, cold filling the room before the door slammed shut.
The bar exhaled.
People went back to their business, and you thought about it, you really did. Thought about leaving him alone. Going back to your measly existence. Your home – the pit for all of your things.
But it didn’t win over in the end.
You topped up his drink. He took it, and glanced at you, brown eyes ringed with mystery.
“That happen often?” he uttered, voice a gruff grunt.
You put the bottle down, and looked away, thinking back to last week when you nearly fought a guy for staring for too long. You glanced back to him. “Sometimes.” “Your boss is an asshole for letting you work here alone.” “That so?” you laughed, shocked at his candour. He nodded and downed his drink, eyeing you from over the rim.
Finished, he put the glass down on the bar, and shrugged his jacket on. He got up to leave, and you felt a chasm begin to open up in your chest.
You went to say something. Anything, to make him stay. But he paused and looked over his shoulder.
His jaw was clenched when he tentatively offered, “be safe.”
When you locked up, he was waiting for you. 
It didn’t scare you. Really, it should, but when you left the bar and saw him standing there, toking on a cigar in the cold, all it did was make you pause. He stood there, gazing at you, eyes clouded by smoke. 
“You waiting for me?” you uttered, making it real, even if the light drift of snow was giving the world a dream like quality. 
He shrugged. “Just waiting.” 
You nodded, and put the bar keys in your bag, ignoring the chasm get wider. If he was going to rob the place, he’d have to get through layers of receipts and tissues to get in. But you knew the bar wasn’t what he was after. Something about his posture, the luring look in his brown eyes — curious, like he was trying to figure something out. 
You began to walk past him, but when he didn’t follow, you paused. You peered over your shoulder, and he was still looking at you. 
Taking you in. “Well,” you started, hitching your bag up your arm, “you gonna walk me home, or what?” 
He followed you in comfortable silence.
Just you, the night, and the crunch of dirt under his boots. His cigar smoke drifted by, and it wafted through your subconscious, followed by pine, and crisp scent of the snow.
He sounded like the noise of the woods — ever present in these parts. A comfort, if one had adapted to its unpredictability. When you got to your familiar walkway, you opened the gate, but he didn’t follow you through.
Instead, he stood by the entrance, watching you unlock your door like he’d just dropped you off from a date. it was when you were halfway through that he spoke up. “You work every night?”
“Yeah,” you started quickly, looking to him. “Apart from Wednesday and Sunday.” He considered you, then gave you a sharp nod, and turned to leave.
That’s how you ended up with a wolf at your door.
Every night, he was the last one left, then he silently walked you home.
Some nights, you’d find him leaning against the entrance, and he’d quietly peel away from the door and follow you. At first, he simply walked closely behind, a looming shadow, until he began walking beside you.
Then one night, you let him in.
Made him a cup of coffee to fight off all the liquor he consumed, and he sat at your kitchen table, and drank every drop.
Watched you in the low, fluorescent lighting, and you did the same. Curiously studied him. He looked different in your home. In your kitchen. Looked a little softer around the edges, even if he couldn’t relax completely.
It went like that for a while. It was on one of these nights that he gave you his name, followed by a shitty cup of coffee. Sometimes two. Maybe a biscuit, or a piece of cake. Leftovers turned into home cooked meals. Sat at the kitchen table and watched him eat. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. Lasagna. Sipped at your cup of tea as he slopped up his pasta, using the back of his hand to wipe the sauce off his mouth.
You left him finishing off his plate to get ready for bed, and it was when you were sorting your hair out, that he came into your bedroom and began taking his boots off.
You stood at your mirror and watched him place them near your door.
Then he reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt.
One by one, you watched his thick fingers reach the bottom. He took it off, revealing a white tank off and broad chest, and hung the shirt up on your door frame.
Jeans next.
Popped the button and shucked them to his feet -- threw them with his boots and dragged himself towards your bed.  
You went to say something. Anything.
But he looked so exhausted as he crashed onto your frilly bed, that all you could manage was, “You lock the door?”
Logan nodded. His eyes were already closed, and he was hugging the pillow when he uttered, “you coming to bed, or what?”
You let him stay the night.
Maybe it was raining, maybe he was too tired – it didn’t matter. All that mattered, was that he was warm, and sometimes, when you woke and felt the terrifying ache of being alive, he’d be there to quiet the pain.
Hush you with the soft swell of his lips and wandering hands.
You’d come with a hushed whisper, hot and sticky over his calloused fingers -- drowsy from how high he took you. Then he’d kiss you, fix your clothes, and go back to sleep.
Always the middle of the night. When it was dark and quiet out, and it felt as if you were the last people alive.
His skilled hands bringing you to the brink, a soft kiss, then back to bed.
You would wait for it. Watch him nurse his whiskey at the end of the bar, the night dragging with every drink you poured. Then, he watched you lock up.
Waited at the door for you, so you could walk home together, wordlessly taking the familiar trail.
He’d eat, you’d watch, then leave for your room.
Once, you woke to his head between your thighs. The night was quiet, room dark – slither of moonlight from your window cutting a line through your bodies.
You were slick with sweat, and as you flexed your taunt muscles, they fizzled and singed. Hot heat pushed low in your belly, rooted between your thighs.
Logan hummed, and you reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, whimpering his name to grab his attention.
He had palm fulls of you. Fists of your thighs, soft of your belly, leaving marks with his desire – desperation. The first thing he did was apologise. Muttered a hoarse, m’sorry, into your soaking cunt, but continued tasting you.
You used his hair as leverage, and hitched your hips up an inch, causing his nose to bump into your sensitive clit, and you hissed, as if in pain, but the sound trailed off into something similar to his name, and Logan grunted, moving your hips further up so he could twist a thick finger inside.
You took all he gave.
Moaned into the pillow beside you as you rocked your hips against his face, soaking his nose and mouth. Said shit you didn’t mean, but meant all the same, and Logan got off on it.
This mysterious man who had taken over your life, grunted your name like it belonged to him. Made you come on his thick beard and puffy lips, then made you taste yourself as he kissed you.
You hugged his sweat slick frame to you, fingers scratching his scalp, mindlessly grinding against his clothed cock. You were content to just kiss him, until he dragged his fingers between your thighs again.
You startled, gasping into his hot mouth, but Logan hummed, near smiling against your lips.
“’think there’s another in there for me,” he drawled.
When he fucked you, there was so much of him that you went blind with it. Eyes half lidded, delirious as he pushed inside, making himself fit. Stuffing you full, then pulling out, just to feel it all over again.
Again and again. You moaned his name into his soaked, scarred chest. Felt yourself leave your body, so hot, so wet, that it was all sensation. Just the slap of his hips against yours, the feel of his hands on your tits, in your mouth, telling you to open wide.
He spat, and when he missed, he smeared the mess off of your chin and rubbed it into your cunt.
Made you come, then filled you with his own. Leant back, and watched it drip out of you. You were so consumed by him, that you didn’t have enough energy to feel self-conscious.
No, when he had his wild eyes on you, you reached between your thighs and stuffed it back inside.
The next evening, and he was back at the bar, waiting for you to bring him his whiskey. When you placed it in front of him, those wild eyes were on you again.
Waiting. Always waiting.
Waiting to play out your usual routine.
masterlist | ask | reblogs appreciated endlessly
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recursive360 · 1 year ago
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🫧 | The Taste of Artificial Intelligence/A.I.
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"Created to show us an optimistic vision of what’s to come, where humanity and technology are more connected than ever. For the first time, Coca-Cola® Y3000 was co-created with artificial intelligence to help bring the flavor of tomorrow to Coke fans. Taste the Future now. Coca-Cola® Y3000 will be available for a limited time only, so pick up a Coca-Cola® Y3000 and get a glimpse into the future world." ​
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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 8 months ago
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1968 [Chapter 7: Apollo, God Of Music]
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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: 8.7k
Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰
💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜
“My uncle, he is a doctor in Zabrze,” Ludwika says, red Yardley lips, Camel cigarette. No one cares if she smokes; she’s not campaigning to be the next first lady. Fosco is puffing on a cigar. Mimi sips drowsily at her Gimlet; you could use a few shots, but you’re making do with a Pink Squirrel, something sweet and feminine and without any bite. “So I go to him and he gives me a bottle of chlordiazepoxide.”
“Oh, Librium,” Mimi says, perking up.
Ludwika waves her hand dismissively; cigarette smoke wafts through the air. “Whatever. The next day I have my audition. A tiny man who thinks he’s God. And I give it a real shot, I try my best, I’m nice, I’m charming, but he doesn’t like me. He says my teeth are too big, like a mouse’s. This is very rude. I did not comment on his fidgety little rat hands. But okay, no problem, I have a plan. No one will stop me from getting out of Poland.”
“You drugged him?” you ask, incredulous, grinning.
“You are a criminal,” Fosco tells Ludwika. “I will call J. Edgar Hoover, you should not be so close to positions of power.”
“Listen, listen,” Ludwika insists. “Here is what I do. I thank him very much for his consideration, and then as I leave I drop my purse and things go everywhere. I filled it before I left my apartment, of course. Anything I could find, empty lipstick tubes and perfume bottles, old makeup compacts with broken mirrors, coins, hair pins, tissues, pens, gum, Krówki candies, it is an avalanche. And when he bends down to help me pick up the mess—I have to encourage him, ‘oh sir won’t you grab that, I am just a stupid girl in a very short dress,’ you understand—I put the pills in his tea.”
“How many pills?” you ask.
“I don’t know. You think I had time to count? Maybe seven.”
“Seven?!” Mimi exclaims, and you take this to mean it was a generous dose.
“What? He did not die,” Ludwika says. “I wait two days and then I go back to his office. And it is so strange, can you believe it, he does not remember my audition! So I remind him that he thought I would be perfect for the ad he is shooting in Paris. He keeps squinting at me and saying ‘are you sure, are you sure?!’ Of course I’m sure! A week later, I am standing under the Eiffel Tower with a bottle of Coca-Cola. And then I book a job in London, and then another in New York City, and one of my new model friends sets me up on a blind date with Otto. Lunch in Astoria at a horrible Greek restaurant. Who wants to eat pie made out of spinach?! Now I am here with you people, and the journalists love when I smile for them with my big mouse teeth.”
All four of you laugh at your table, an elite club, the ones who married in. It’s Alicent’s 60th birthday, and the ballroom of the Texas State Hotel in downtown Houston is raucous with clinking glasses and chatter and music and the shutter clicks of photographers. The DJ is playing Fun, Fun, Fun by the Beach Boys. Alicent is dancing with Helaena and the children, and it’s the happiest you can ever remember seeing her. Otto, Aemond, and Sargent Shriver are deep in conversation by the bar, furrowed brows and Old Fashioneds, today’s newspapers and tomorrow’s itinerary. Criston is standing with the men but watching Alicent, face wistful, silver streaks in his jet black hair, and it occurs to you that they must have grown up together: Alicent a 19-year-old bride and Criston her husband’s fledgling bodyguard, the person closest to her age in the household, near and trusted and forbidden, orbiting adolescent twins like Artemis and Apollo. You keep looking around for Aegon. No one else seems aware that he’s gone.
“Otto thought he died and went to heaven when he found you,” you tell Ludwika. “His Eastern Bloc defector princess.”
“He is going to bring my mother to the States. I would be anything he wanted me to be. I would be a model, or a housewife, or a nurse. I would be Bigfoot! But this…” Ludwika gestures broadly: to the ballroom, the city, the latest stop on the campaign trail. “It is not so bad. I never expected to serve the Polish people so far from home. You know how you stop communism? You show the world that capitalism can do more for them. There must be a path to a better life, wars must be ended, injustices must be dealt with. Aemond will do that.” She grins at you, exhaling smoke through her nostrils. “You will help him.”
You reply a bit wryly: “It’s an honor.”
“We are like four legs of a table,” Fosco observes. He points at Ludwika with his smoldering cigar. “You are a Slav fleeing the Russians. My family has ancient titles in Italy and yet no castles, no land, we are essentially homeless. Mimi’s father is a third-generation oil tycoon from Pennsylvania. And she was supposed to fix Aegon.”
“I don’t think I succeeded,” Mimi confesses.
“And then when it was time for Aemond to get married…” Fosco turns to Mimi. “Do you remember? What an ordeal. The discussions went on and on and on. She must be smart, she must be sinless, she should be from a self-made family, a real rags-to-riches story of the American Dream.”
“Right.” Mimi nods groggily, reminiscing. “And from the South.”
“Yes! But not the Deep South. No, no. Someplace Aemond could actually win. Texas, Tennessee, North Carolina. Or Florida, of course.” Now Fosco notices how you’re looking at him, because you’ve never heard this before. He quickly pivots. “But the weekend Aemond met you, it was settled. Nobody could compare.”
His tone is odd; it suggests backstories, history, mythology. Ludwika appears to be just as intrigued as you are, taking a drag off her Camel, her eyes narrowing until they are thin and catlike. You ask: “Who else was being considered?”
“No one,” Fosco answers—too quickly—and he and Mimi exchange an uneasy glance.
What did Aemond and I talk about the night we met? you think dizzily. In those first hours, minutes, thirty seconds? Where I’m from. What I was studying.
Fosco, a true Italian, then attempts to deflect by flirting. He makes emphatic, passionate motions with his hands. “You were just so captivating, so clever…”
“And young enough that Aemond could easily beat Aegon’s record of five children,” Mimi adds. Fosco clears his throat and glares at her. Mimi realizes what she’s said and gazes forlornly down into her Gimlet, mortified, groaning softly. You’ve had one c-section already, and no living son to show for it. At most, you might be able to give Aemond two or three more children; and you don’t even want them. You want Ari back. You want to touch him, to hold him, even if only for a moment, even if only once.
“It’s fine,” you try to reassure Mimi, but everyone can tell it’s not.
Ludwika breaks the tension. “You do not want twenty kids anyway. Your uterus will fall out onto the floor.” And you’re so caught off-guard that all you can do is smile at her from across the table, knowing, appreciative. It’s a strange thing to be grateful for.
“She’s right,” Mimi says mournfully. “They had to sew mine back in.”
Fosco pleads: “Stop, stop, I will need a lobotomy.”
Mimi slurps on her Gimlet. “It’s sad. I used to love sex.”
“Mimi, please,” Fosco says, wincing, holding up his palms. “You are like my sister. I prefer to think you are the Virgin Mary.”
Ludwika sighs dramatically and looks to where Otto stands on the other side of the ballroom. “I used to love sex too.”
Now you’re all howling again, rocking back in your chairs. The DJ is playing Go Where You Wanna Go by the Mamas and the Papas. Cass Elliot is the real talent in that group and everybody knows it, but of course any mention of her must be dutifully accompanied by: If only she was more beautiful. If only she could lose weight and find a husband.
“I think you like it, yes?” Ludwika says to you like a dare, puffing on a fresh Camel, red lipstick staining the white paper, blood on sheets. She combs her manicured fingernails though her voluminous blonde hair. “I could tell when I met you. You dress like Jackie Kennedy, but you are not such a statue. She belongs in a museum. I can imagine you at the Summer of Love.”
Fosco and Mimi shift uncomfortably. It’s not the sort of thing they would ever ask you. It’s too personal, too easily a segue into criticizing Aemond. It’s a usurpation of the natural order. Mimi guzzles her Gimlet and flags down a waiter to get another. Fosco takes off his glasses and cleans them with his skinny black necktie.
Sex. You think back to before you began to dread it. This is difficult, like trying to remember Greek words or British manners, which fork to use with each course. Memories from another lifetime come back in flashes: tangled up with your first boyfriend in his tiny dorm room bed, Aemond peeling off your still-dripping swimsuit on the floor of your hotel room during your honeymoon in Hawaii. You shrug and give Ludwika a nod, a brisk, ungenerous answer in the affirmative. “I always feel like I could keep going.”
Paradoxically, this does not end the conversation. Ludwika, Fosco, and Mimi study you with the same bewildered, gear-spinning curiosity. After a moment Ludwika says: “Not after you’ve finished, surely. I am half dead by the end if it’s good.”
“Finished?” you ask, puzzled. All three of them gawk at you, then at each other.
Aegon breezes into the ballroom wearing the Gibson guitar he bought in Manhattan, blue like the Caribbean or the Mediterranean or the crystalline waves off the coast of Hawaii, dotted with fish and sea turtles. Your eyes go to him immediately and stay there; you can feel the swirling warmth of blood in your cheeks. As Aegon passes the table, he squeezes your shoulder—brief, familiar, welcome—and Fosco raises his thick eyebrows. Mimi is too busy gulping down her Gimlet to notice. Ludwika chuckles, low and wicked, then slides a makeup compact out of her Prada purse to check her lipstick. Aegon goes to the DJ and yells something over the music. He’s fucked up already, you can tell, pills or booze or both.
Fosco stops a passing waiter. “Signore, did you hear who won the United Nations Handicap?”
The waiter stares blankly back at him. “What?”
“The turf race at Monmouth Park. I have $200 on Dr. Fager.”
The DJ abruptly cuts off the music. Aegon gives his guitar a few practice strums to make sure it’s in tune. He stumbles when he walks, he lurches and sways. His blonde hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead. He is woefully underdressed. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, his denim shorts tattered; on his feet he wears black moccasins. There is a small gold hoop in each of his ears. Otto keeps telling Aegon to take them out, and every time Aegon ignores him.
“Happy birthday, Mom,” you hear him say to Alicent, and she presses a palm to her heart, her dark eyes wide and shining. “When I first heard this, it made me think of you.”
Otto and Sargent Shriver—the aspiring vice president—are glowering at Aegon. Aemond smirks as he nips at an Old Fashioned, amused; but he makes sharp, intentional eye contact with each of the three journalists. You will tell the right version of this story, he means. You will not print anything we wouldn’t want written, or my family will be your enemies for life.
As soon as Aegon plucks the first few chords, you recognize the song. “Oh, that’s really funny.”
“What?” Fosco asks.
“It’s Mama Tried.” You stand and begin clapping, then motion for the rest of the table to do the same. They obey without protest, though Mimi can’t seem to keep track of the beat. Aegon is beaming as he sings.
“The first thing I remember knowin’
Was a lonesome whistle blowin’
And a youngin’s dream of growin’ up to ride
On a freight train leavin’ town
Not knowin’ where I'm bound
And no one could change my mind but Mama tried.”
Cosmo sprints over from where he had been dancing with Alicent. He grabs your hand and tugs you towards the center of the floor. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he shouts impatiently.
“Call the FBI, I’m being kidnapped,” you say to Fosco and Ludwika as you let Cosmo drag you away.
“One and only rebel child
From a family meek and mild
My Mama seemed to know what lay in store
Despite all my Sunday learnin’
Towards the bad I kept on turnin’
‘Til Mama couldn’t hold me anymore.”
At the heart of the ballroom, Criston has swooped in to dance with Alicent, slow chaste circling. Helaena has floated off to the bar to chat with Otto, who keeps all his smiles for her. The children—Targaryens and Shrivers alike—are stomping and cheering and alternating between various moves: the Mashed Potato, the Twist, the Swim, the Loco-Motion, the Watusi, the Pony in pairs. Aemond whistles to a photographer and then nods to where you are holding onto one of Cosmo’s tiny hands as he spins around at lawless, breakneck speed. Of course this would make for a good image: you being maternal, you promising the American people that they will one day have not only a first lady but a first family.
“And I turned 21 in prison doin’ life without parole
No one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried
Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied
That leaves only me to blame ‘cause Mama tried.”
Cameras flash and the crowd keeps clapping. Cosmo giggles wildly each time he almost falls and you pull him back to his feet. There is a hand skimming around your waist, a listless powder blue dress your husband chose for you. Aemond replaces Cosmo as your dance partner. Aegon’s 10-year-old daughter Violeta spirits Cosmo away; Aemond reels you in close, one palm pressed into the small of your back, his left hand gripping your right. When you steal a glimpse of Aegon—still strumming, still singing—he doesn’t look so triumphant anymore. His grin is frozen and artificial. His drunk muddy eyes go steely.
“I need you to do something for me,” Aemond begins.
Of course, you once would have said. Anything. “What is it?”
“I want you to cut your hair like Jackie.”
You’re so stunned your feet stop moving. Aemond coaxes you back into the steps. “No.”
“Think about how much more versatile it would be. Jackie is an icon, she’s sophisticated, she’s mature.”
“If you wanted a wife in her thirties, you could have easily found one.”
“Honey—”
“I do everything you ask,” you say, barely more than a whisper. “Everything. I wear what you want me to. I go where you want me to. I spend ten hours a week getting my hair fixed. I keep it up, I keep it presentable. But I’m not chopping it off.”
“You’re never going to be able to wear it down anyway,” Aemond counters, so calm, so rational, like your skull is nothing but incendiary feminine mania. “If I win, you’ll be surrounded by staff and journalists for years. You can’t be photographed with it down, you look about eighteen. And like you live on a park bench in Haight-Ashbury.”
“It’s my hair. I’m keeping it.”
Aemond leans in and says, cold and severe: “You’re my wife, and everything that’s yours belongs to me.” Then he kisses your cheek as cameras click and strobe. “Think about it. Now smile.”
You force yourself to. The crowd applauds as Aegon finishes singing and flees the dancefloor. The DJ puts on Light My Fire by The Doors. You and Aemond leave in opposite directions: he goes to talk to Eunice Kennedy, who is hugging her 3-year-old son Anthony to her chest; you return to your table to drain the last of your Pink Squirrel. You need something stronger. You need to be alone so you can collect yourself.
Now Aegon has shed his guitar and is standing with his back to the wall, smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to some campaign staffer—she looks like a girl, but she’s probably your age—who is gazing up at him worshipfully. She says something that makes him laugh, his head thrown back, his eyes sparkling, and you feel like you’re waking up from your c-section all over again, your belly split open and rearranged, aching, stabbing, nauseous.
“Are you okay?” Ludwika asks, scrutinizing you.
“I’m perfect. I’ll be right back.”
You hurry out of the ballroom, the music fading behind you. You slip into one of the elevators in the lobby and hit the button for the top floor, where Aemond’s entourage has booked every suite. As the door is closing—as only a foot of space remains—Aegon shoves his way into the elevator, startling you. The door shuts behind him and you begin the ascent. Aegon slams the red emergency stop button, and the elevator jolts to a halt.
“What the hell are you doing—?!”
“What pissed you off, huh?” Aegon taunts, stepping closer. You back away from him until you run out of room; not because you want the distance, but because you’re afraid of what you’ll do if it’s gone.
“Nothing. I’m so great, I’ve never been better, can’t you tell?”
He’s so close you can feel the heat rising off his flushed skin, you can see the miles-deep murky blue of his irises, open water, shipwrecks and drowning. “You want all this to be over? You want the women with their big, adoring eyes and their short skirts to disappear? Grow up. Stop acting like a kid. Ask for it.”
“Ask for what?”
“You know.”
If you touch him now, you won’t be able to stop. There’s nowhere for us to go. There’s no way out of this family, this year, this world. “I don’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Aegon barks out a sardonic, cutting laugh. “Yeah, you’re definitely 23.”
“I thought you loved girls young enough to be your daughters. Isn’t that what gets you hard?”
“You’re a fucking coward.”
“You’re sweating on me, you pig.”
“You want it so bad,” Aegon whispers as he presses himself against you, his ribs and thighs and hips, and you clutch for the walls of the elevator so you don’t reach for him instead. His left hand is tearing your hair out of its clips and pins so it falls free like you used to wear it; the right is all over your face, your jaw, your chin, your cheeks, touching you ceaselessly, ravenously, a blind man reading chronicles of braille. You’re trying to turn away from him, but he keeps pulling you back in. You’re breathing his rum and nicotine, you’re gasping in low, starved moans. It might be more intimate than kissing, than sex. He’s already felt your body. What he asks for now is your soul. His words are warm and aching as he murmurs through loosed strands of your hair: “Tell me you want it, please, just tell me, just tell me, tell me and it’s yours.”
Your palms land on his bare, damp chest, and Aegon starts unfastening the last buttons of his shirt. Instead, you push him away. Aegon lets you. He surrenders. “I can’t,” you choke out. You hit the red button, and the elevator resumes its rise to the top floor of the hotel.
“I’m really fucked up right now,” he says with sudden realization, swaying, staring down at his feet like he fears he’ll lose track of them.
“I’m aware.”
“I’m sorry. I think…I think I wanted that to happen differently.”
“I can’t trust you when you’re like this,” you say. I feel like I can’t trust anyone. Aegon looks up at you, his glassy eyes large and wounded. When the elevator door opens, you step out and he stays in, riding it back to the lobby.
In the suite you share with Aemond, you turn on the radio and spin the dial until you find a Loretta Lynn song. You go to the minibar cabinet and down two tiny glass bottles of vodka, something that won’t make you smell like too much of a drunk. You’ll have to fix your hair before you go back to the ballroom; you’ll have to change your dress. You’re painted with Aegon’s sweat and smoke. You can’t risk your husband noticing. You slide open the top drawer of the nightstand on your side of the bed and take out the card you keep there, the one that travels with you to each stop on the campaign trail. Loretta Lynn croons from the radio, wronged and wrathful.
“If you don’t wanna go to Fist City
You’d better detour around my town
‘Cause I’ll grab you by the hair of your head
And I’ll lift you off of the ground
I'm not a-sayin’ my baby is a saint, ‘cause he ain’t
And that he won’t cat around with a kitty
I’m here to tell you, gal, to lay off of my man
If you don’t wanna go to Fist City.”
You lie on the floor and peer up at the card in your hands: jubilant cartoon cow, festive party hat. You know exactly what’s written on the inside; it’s etched into your memory like myths passed down through millennia. Nevertheless, you read it again. The original message is still crossed out, and there’s an addendum below it in hasty black ink: I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf!
You graze your thumbprint across Aegon’s scrawled signature. It’s smudged now. You do this a lot. One day his name might disappear altogether from the stark white parchment, from memory.
You close the card and hug it to your chest like a mother holds a living child.
~~~~~~~~~~
“What’s going on between you and Aegon?”
Alarmed, you meet Aemond’s gaze, two reflections in the vanity mirror. It’s the next morning, and you’re finishing up your makeup. Your dress and jacket are striped with black and white, your jewelry is silver, chains on your wrists and small tasteful hoops in your ears. “Nothing.” There is a lull you have to fill before it becomes suspicious. “He’s been helpful, he’s been…you know. Ever since Mount Sinai.”
Aemond adjusts his cerulean blue tie, studying himself in the mirror. He’s still wearing his leather eyepatch. Putting in his glass eye is the last thing he does before leaving the suite each day. “He was a comfort to you.”
“Well, he was there.”
“Because I told him to be,” Aemond says, resting his hands on the back of your chair. “Someone had to stay at Asteria to keep tabs on things, to let me know what you were up to. Aegon was the most expendable. Mimi and the kids make for good photos, but Aegon…he’s not especially endearing to the public. Those few years as the mayor of Trenton just about ruined him. I’d love to make him the attorney general if I win, but I don’t think the people would stomach it. Maybe if he behaves himself he can have the job for my second term.”
Eight years, you think, unable to fathom it. Eight years in a fishbowl. Eight years lying under Aemond as he tries to get me pregnant with children neither of us can love.
Aemond leans down to touch his lips to the side of your throat. “I’m glad you’re finally friends,” he says. “Aegon’s not all bad. But don’t let him get you in trouble.”
“I wouldn’t.” What did you and Aemond talk about before Ari died? What was this marriage built on? The senate, the presidency, civil rights, poverty, the Space Race, Vietnam, Greek mythology. Everything but each other. Dreams and ideals that would dwarf any mortal, would render them invisible.
“And watch out for any reporters from the Wall Street Journal. They’d kill for Nixon. If they can twist your words, they will.” He gets something from inside his own nightstand: the bloodstained komboskini from when he was shot in Palm Beach. He places it in your right hand, all 100 knots. “Give this to someone today. You know how to do it, you’ve always understood this part. Pick the right person, the right moment. Make sure there are plenty of cameras around.”
“Where am I going? Lunch with the mayor’s wife, that’s this afternoon, isn’t it?”
Aemond nods. “And a few other stops. Then we’re going to the Alamo in San Antonio tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
He recoils, reaches for the left half of his face, kneads the scar tissue there as nerve pain radiates through his flesh all the way down to the bone. Once you felt such agonizing pity for him; now all you can think about is the matching scar you wear on your belly, hidden and shameful and a badge of your inadequacies: your body too weak to protect Ari, your mind too pliable to resist being ensnared by the crushing gravity of this man, this family, this life.
“How can I help?” you ask Aemond, because it’s the right thing to do. And randomly, you find yourself remembering the statue of Apollo in Helaena’s garden back at Asteria, the god of music, healing, truth, prophesy.
“You can’t.” Aemond goes to the bathroom to force his glass eye into its socket. You depart for the hotel lobby where Ludwika and Mimi, your companions for the day, are already waiting. Ludwika is wearing a rose pink Chanel skirt suit. Mimi—relatively functional, as she hasn’t been awake long enough to ruin herself yet—is dressed in delicate dove grey.
Alicent, Helaena, and the children are scheduled to tour a local high school and library; Criston, unsurprisingly, is going with them. Aemond, accompanied by Otto, has a series of meetings with local business leaders and politicians. Aegon and Fosco are headed to the Michael E. DeBakey Veterans Affairs Medical Center to promise maimed soldiers that Aemond will end the war that carved out bits of them and filled the voids with screaming nightmares. The limousine you share with Ludwika and Mimi ferries you first to the NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center. Mimi is entranced by the reflective surface of the helmets, coated with gold to divert blinding sunbeams; in turn, the astronauts are entranced by Ludwika, who leaves lipstick smudges on their cheeks when she kisses them. Next is a tea party hosted by Iola Faye Cure Welch, the mayoress of Houston since 1964 and the mother of five children. And as you nibble daintily at triangle-shaped sandwiches and trudge through small talk about flowers and furniture, you can’t stop smiling. You can’t stop thinking about how ridiculous Aegon would think this is if he was here.
The driver mentions one last stop, then coasts through midafternoon traffic towards the city center. You spend the ride touching up your hair and makeup. Ludwika offers to let you borrow her seduction-red lipstick; you politely decline. You step out of the limo and shield your eyes from the glare of the Texas sun. It takes your vision a moment to adjust, and then you realize where you are. The sign above the main entranceway reads: Houston Methodist Hospital. The air snags in your throat, your lungs are empty. Your hands tremble violently. The earth rocks beneath your white high heels. Mount Sinai is the last hospital you walked into, and you left with your son in a casket so small it could have been mistaken for a shoebox.
“Alright, let’s go,” Ludwika says, linking an arm through yours. Mimi, badly in need of a drink, is looking deflated and edgy. “We are almost done. And I have been promised a medium-rare steak for dinner! Mushrooms and onions too! The Statue of Liberty did not lie. This country is a golden door.”
“I can’t.”
Ludwika stares at you. “What?”
“I can’t, I can’t go in there.”
“What is she talking about?” Ludwika asks Mimi, who shakes her head, mystified.
“I can’t,” you whimper.
They’ve never seen you like this. They don’t know what to do. They listen to you, that is the hierarchy; but it’s too late to change course now. Journalists are approaching in a swarm. Nurses and doctors are gathering by the front door to welcome you.
He knew, you think, suddenly furious. Aemond knew, and he didn’t tell me.
“It will be okay,” Ludwika says, patting your back awkwardly. “We are here with you. Nothing bad will happen.”
“Oh,” Mimi breathes, understanding. She looks at you with sympathy that shimmers on the surface of the opaque, polluted lake of her mind. Then she catches Ludwika’s eye and skims a hand down her own slim midsection. Ari, she mouths, and Ludwika’s face falls.
The doctors and nurses are whistling and applauding; the journalists are snapping photos and scrounging for quotes. You feel your conditioning over the past two years taking over: straight posture, gentle smile, hands clasped demurely together. But you are locked away somewhere underneath.
“Do not worry,” Ludwika tells you softly. “We will talk, we will make it easier for you.” Then she and Mimi begin boisterously shaking hands and thanking people for coming as you make your way through the crowd of journalists and towards the main entrance of the hospital.
People are saying things to you, but you don’t really hear them. You reply with words you won’t remember afterwards. You nod frequently and go wherever you are led. Doctors are explaining new research into placenta previa and c-sections. Nurses are showing you a state-of-the-art NICU for premature infants. Someone is placing a baby in your arms, and you can’t do anything but accept it numbly. You can’t look down at it, you can’t allow yourself to feel the weight of some other woman’s child. You wear your smile like armor and let the photographers capture their snapshots, painting a frame around you, deciding where you live.
Then you are introduced to the parents, women in hospital beds and men perched in chairs beside them, just like the one where Aegon slept at Mount Sinai. They take your hands when you offer them and tell you about their small children, sick children, dying children. One patient just delivered twins. The first did not survive beyond a few hours, but the second is in an incubator and gaining strength. You recall the komboskini stained with Aemond’s blood and take it out of your purse, give it to the suffering mother, watch faith rise in her face like dawn over the Atlantic. But you won’t remember her. You cannot allow yourself to.
Outside as you, Ludwika, and Mimi are headed back to the limousine, the journalists make one last attempt to poach a headline-worthy quote. “Mrs. Targaryen! Mrs. Targaryen!” a young man shouts, clambering to the front of the horde and jabbing a microphone in your face. “I’m from the Houston Chronicle. Can you tell me how the senator feels about the failure of the most recent phase of the Tet Offensive?”
You are in a fog; you don’t feel real, this moment and this city don’t feel real, and so you cannot remember what Aemond would want you to say. “The Vietnam War has claimed too many lives already. We should have never sent our men there to die. But since that is done, the best thing we can do now is end the draft immediately and then withdrawal from the region as soon as the South Vietnamese are able to defend their own territory, which is their responsibility.” The journalist already considers this effort fruitful and begins to retreat, but you have one last point to make. Ludwika and Mimi watch you anxiously. “I lost someone in Vietnam. I met him when I was in college. He had a good heart, and he joined because he thought it was wrong for poor men to have to fight while rich kids got exemptions, and he was killed in action in October of 1965.”
“This was a friend?” the journalist asks, eyes glowing hungrily. Then he adds as an afterthought: “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
“A boyfriend. Corporal Cameron Marino from Schenectady, New York. People called him Cam.”
A solemn murmur ripples through the crowd. Hats are removed, hands held to chests. “Rest in peace, Cam,” someone says. Maybe they have somebody they care about in Vietnam, a friend or a lover or a brother. You wave goodbye and climb into the limousine. The outpouring swells as you vanish: We love you, Mrs. Targaryen! God bless you, Mrs. Targaryen!
In the lobby of the Texas State Hotel, you tell Ludwika and Mimi not to follow you. They have to listen. After some hesitation, Mimi heads for the bar in the ballroom; Ludwika asks the staff at the front desk if she’ll be able to make a call to Poland with the phone in her room. You take the elevator to the top floor. Fosco is in the hallway, on his way back from one of the vending machines with a Fresca. When he sees your face, his jaw drops.
“Dio mio, what happened?”
“Nothing,” you say, tears biting in your eyes. You pass him, digging your key out of your purse.
“Are you sure—?”
“Fosco, please. I don’t want to talk.”
“Okay,” he says doubtfully. Then he seems to get an idea and strides away with great purpose. You take shelter in your suite, silent and dim; Aemond isn’t back yet. You brace yourself against the locked door and sob into empty, trembling hands, at last hidden away where no one can see you, where no one can be disturbed or disappointed. You know now that none of it was healed—not the loss, not the revelations—but only buried, and now it’s all been unearthed again and the pain shrieks like exposed nerves.
It’s not fair. Ari deserved better, I deserved better.
There’s nothing you can do. Your hands ache to hold someone that no longer exists. You can’t unlearn the truth of what your marriage is.
There are two knocks, quick and rough. “Hey, it’s me.” And there’s such pure intimacy in those words. You know my voice. You know why I’m here. “Open the door.”
“I’m okay, just, just, just leave me alone—”
“Open the door,” Aegon says again. “Or I’ll get security up here to do it for you.”
Swiping the tears from your face, you let him in. He’s dressed in baggy black shorts, nothing on his feet, an unbuttoned stolen green army jacket. You once thought he wore those to play the part of a revolutionary from the comfort of his East Coast seaside mansion. Now you understand it’s because he misses Daeron, because he believes he should have gone to Vietnam instead. There are several dog tags strung around his neck; some of the veterans at the medical center he visited must have gifted them to him.
“What’s wrong?” Aegon’s eyes sweep over you, seeking, horrified. “What did he do?”
You can’t answer, you can’t breathe. You back away from him as more tears spill down your cheeks.
“Hey, hey, hey, let me help you. Please don’t be upset. Did he say something, did he hurt you?” Aegon reaches out, and as soon as he touches you your knees buckle and you’re on the floor, trying not to wail, trying not to scream, and Aegon is pulling you against his chest—bare skin, borrowed metal—and his hands are on your face and in your hair, and his lips are against your forehead as he murmurs: “Shh, shh, don’t cry. It’s okay.”
“No it’s not.”
“Whatever it is, I can help.”
“I had to go to a hospital and hold babies and I, I, I never even got to touch him, not once, not ever, and I can’t now because he’s gone. He’s locked in some fucking vault, he’s just bones, but he was supposed to be a person, and those other babies are going to get to grow up but he isn’t, and it’s not fair.”
“You’re right,” Aegon agrees softly, still holding you.
“No one else knew him.”
“I did. I was there the whole time.”
“Only because Aemond made you stay.”
“No,” Aegon swears. “I was supposed to spy on you. He never told me to do any of the rest of it. I stayed because I wanted to.”
“You did,” you say, very quietly, weakly, conceding.
“And I’m still here now.”
Your lungs aren’t burning quite so much. Your tears are slowing. You unravel yourself from Aegon, averting your eyes. Now you’re ashamed; you aren’t in the habit of revealing to people how much you’re splintering like cracked glass, fresh fractures every time you think to check the damage. “I’m, um, I’m really sorry.”
“Look, I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories, but this is definitely not the most embarrassing thing I’ve seen you do.”
You laugh, only for a few seconds, and Aegon smiles as he mops the tears from your face with the sleeve of his army jacket. Then he turns serious again.
“Can I ask you something? It’s very personal. It’s offensive, honestly. But I have to know.”
“You can ask.”
“Do you want more children?”
More children. Because Ari was real. “Not now. Not with Aemond.”
Aegon nods, suspicions confirmed. “Can you do that sponge thing you told me about?”
“No. I think he’d be able to feel it, he’s…” You gesture vaguely. It’s difficult to say. “He’s big.”
Aegon didn’t want to hear that. He didn’t want to have to think about it. He flinches, just enough that you notice. But as much as he’d like to, he doesn’t change the subject. “What about the pill?”
“No doctor is going to write me a prescription without my husband’s permission. Especially considering who my husband is.”
“I hate this fucking country,” Aegon hisses. “Puritanical goddamn hellscape. Old Testament bullshit.” He drags his fingers through his hair a few times, then pats your cheek like he did before: twice, gently, playfully. “Come on. Let’s go smoke.”
“I can’t do it on the balcony. Someone might get a picture.”
“Okay. No big deal. We’ll go to the roof.”
You stare at him. “The roof?”
“You really think I haven’t already been up there?” He stands and offers you his hand. “You’ll love it. The view is fantastic.”
The view is good, but the grass is better. You know that it makes some people useless, others paranoid, but for you it’s always painted the world a color that is softer, kinder, lighter, more bearable. You and Aegon lie next to each other, smoking and watching twilight fall over Houston like a spell. You’ll have to shower and gulp some Listerine before Aemond gets anywhere near you. It’s interesting; each day you seem to acquire new secrets to keep from him.
Aegon asks: “Where would you be right now if you weren’t Mrs. Targaryen?”
“Probably married to someone worse.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, but let’s say you weren’t. Let’s say you can do whatever you want.” He points up at the lavender sky and acts like he’s moving the emerging glimmers of stars around with his fingertip. “There, I’ve changed your fate. Who would you be?”
You ponder this. “I want to teach math to kids and then spend every summer break getting baked on some beach.”
Aegon cackles. “Hell, sign me up.” He lights a third joint for himself with his tiny chrome Zippo. “Those are the people doing the real work. Teachers, nurses, farmers electricians, plumbers, welders, firemen, therapists, janitors, public defenders. The normal, unglamorous types.”
“You don’t think presidents and senators make a difference?”
“Sure they do. But only like 5% of the job is actually helping people. The rest of it is schmoozing and tea parties and making speeches, because looking and sounding good is better than doing good. They’re addicted to vapid pretenses that make them feel important. You live like that and you forget how to be a human. I mean, look at Nixon. The man was raised as a Quaker, one of the most peaceful religions on earth, and now he’s planning to throw ten or twenty thousand more boys into the great Vietnamese meatgrinder and probably napalm the hell out of Cambodia and Laos while he’s at it to get the communists’ supply lines. The man’s got no idea who he is anymore. I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so terrified he’s gonna start World War III.”
I wonder who Aemond was a few decades ago. “What makes you feel important?”
“Nothing,” Aegon says. “I’m not under any delusions that I matter.”
“I think you matter, old man.”
“Really?”
“A little bit. About this much.” You hold your hand up to show him the infinitesimal space between your thumb and index finger, and Aegon chuckles, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.
“Let’s do it,” he says with sudden, forceful conviction. “If Nixon wins in November, we’ll get out of here. I’ll go back to Yuma to teach on the reservation and you can come with me. You get a math class, I take English, or Music, or both, whatever. We’ll buy a bungalow out in the desert and make s’mores every night and look up at the stars. I’ll show you how to play guitar if you give me algebra lessons.”
You peek over at him, intrigued. “Is that all we’re going to do?”
“Well we’ll fuck, obviously.”
“Oh, obviously.” You giggle; it’s ridiculous, it’s paradisical, it’s insane how good it sounds. But surely that’s only because you’re high. “I don’t know how Mimi would feel about that.”
“She won’t care. She doesn’t want me anymore, hasn’t in years. Sometimes she just forgets that when she’s wasted. Mimi can go to Arizona too. We’ll load up the kids in a van and strap her to the roof.”
Now your voice is somber. “She was supposed to fix you.”
“Yeah,” Aegon says: slow, meditative, guilty. “I think Mimi and I have a few too many of the same demons.”
You roll over, push yourself up on your palms, and crawl to the edge of the rooftop. You prop your elbows on the ledge and gaze out into the city lights, the sky turning from violet to indigo to primordial darkness. Aegon joins you, staring down at the distant aquamarine rectangle of the hotel pool.
He asks: “You think I could make that?”
“No.”
“Should I try?”
“You definitely shouldn’t.”
“A few months ago, you would have pushed me off this roof.”
You shrug. “You’ve proved yourself useful.”
“That’s why you like me now? Because I’m useful?”
“Who said I like you?” you tease, smiling.
“You like me,” Aegon says, grinning and smug, radiant in the silver moonlight and urban incandescence. “You like me so much it scares you. But there’s no need to panic. It’s okay. I know the feeling.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You want to touch him, you want him to touch you, you want to study every arc and angle of him like he’s a marble statue in a garden: too beautiful to be mortal, too fragile to be divine.
~~~~~~~~~~
Three nights later in Nebraska, there is a knock on the door of your hotel suite. The nannies have herded the children off to bed; the adults are unwinding downstairs in the courtyard of the Sheraton Omaha, designed to resemble an Italian garden. There’s a brand new Jacuzzi that you’re looking forward to taking a dip in. You finish pulling on your swimsuit, white and patterned with sunflowers, a one-piece with a flared skirt.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Richard Nixon,” Aegon says through the door. “Naked. Horny. Please love me.”
You laugh and let him in. He’s leaning against the doorframe in Hawaiian swim trunks and nothing else, pink sunburn glowing on his soft chest. He holds up a brown paper bag and shakes it.
“For you.”
“What is it, heroin?” Instead, you open the bag to find small, circular packs of pills. “No way. You did not.”
“That’s enough for six months,” Aegon says, smirking, proud of himself. “I’ll be back again in February. Guess that makes me your dealer, babe. I don’t accept cash, checks, or cards, only sexual favors. You want to get down on your knees, or should I?”
“How did you get these?”
“I told a doctor they’re for one of my whores.”
“Maybe they are.”
You’ve surprised him, you’ve got him thinking about it now. His face flushes a splotchy, charming pink. “So, uh, you coming down to the courtyard?”
“Yeah. Right now. Just let me hide these first. Are there instructions in here…?”
“Mm hmm,” Aegon says, still distracted, studying the entirely unremarkable carpet. You stow the paper bag of birth control pills in the bottom of your bras and panties drawer, then walk with Aegon to take the elevator down to the ground floor. You both notice the bright red emergency stop button and share a glance, smirking, taunting.
In the courtyard, Alicent is struggling to pay attention as Helaena identifies each and every species of plant and explains where in the world it is native to. Fosco is simultaneously teaching Criston how to yo-yo and berating him for not believing the Cubs will end up in the World Series. Fosco has apparently bet $500 on them. Ludwika is stretched out on a lounge chair like a cat and reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. Aemond, wearing his eyepatch and a blue pair of swim trunks, appears to be arguing with Otto over the contents of a newspaper article. Mimi is alone in the Jacuzzi, bubbles rumbling all around her as she slumps against the rim, a frosty Gimlet clutched in one hand.
“Mimi, get out of the Jacuzzi,” you order.
“I’m fine!” she slurs, and you groan, knowing you’re going to have to drag her out.
Aemond is approaching; no, not approaching, raging. “What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck is this?” He hurls the newspaper at you, the Houston Chronicle. The headline reads: To Mrs. Targaryen, ending the Vietnam War is personal. “Why would you tell somebody that? Other papers are going to start reporting this. You gave them his full name. They’ve found his school, his friends, his gravesite in motherfucking Arlington National Cemetery—”
“You set me up,” you say. “You didn’t tell me about the hospital.”
Aegon takes the newspaper from you and frantically skims the article. “Hey, man,” he tells Aemond as he pieces it together, attempting to deescalate. It’s not a skill you knew he possessed. “She was rattled, she wasn’t thinking clearly. And there’s nothing bad in this article. It makes her sound invested and sympathetic, not…um…whatever you’re thinking.”
“You don’t get it,” Aemond seethes. “Journalists are going to start hounding his friends, his classmates, people who lived in his dorm building. Nixon’s newspapers will publish any gossip they can dig up about what she did when she was in school. Things people saw, things people overheard—”
“What, the fact that she had one boyfriend before she met you? That’s worthy of a nuclear meltdown?! Better prepare for Armageddon, a woman got laid, launch the goddamn warheads!”
“She doesn’t get to have a past! She should understand that, she signed up for this, she knew exactly what was expected of her!”
“And what about your past?” Aegon says, low and searing, and Aemond goes quiet. Their eyes are locked on each other: Aegon defiant, Aemond unnerved. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen that expression on his face before. You don’t think you have. Not even when he was shot and half-blinded. Not even when Ari died.
“What does that mean?” you ask your husband. Still staring at Aegon—tangled in a thorny, silent battle of wills—he doesn’t reply.
There are swift, thudding footsteps. Otto grabs Aegon by his hair, hooks a finger through the small gold hoop in his right ear, and tears it straight through the earlobe. Aegon screams as blood streams down his face, feeling the ravaged fringes of his flesh.
“I told you to take those out,” Otto says. “Now remove the other one before I rip it free, and go get yourself stitched up.”
You do something you’ve never done before, never even thought of. You strike out with both hands and shove Otto so hard he goes staggering backwards, his arms wheeling. The others are yelling and rushing over. Aemond is trying to yank you to him, but he can’t get a grip on your swimsuit. “I will kill you!” you roar at Otto. “I will push you down a staircase, I will slit your fucking throat, don’t you ever touch him!”
Alicent is weeping, appalled, trying to get a look at Aegon’s damaged ear. Criston is helping her, moving Aegon’s bloodied hair out of the way. Fosco links his arms around your waist and drags you out of Aemond’s reach just as he’s getting his fingers beneath a strap of your swimsuit. Helaena is covering her face with her hands and wailing. Ludwika is shrieking at Otto: “What did you do? Don’t give me that, what did you do?!”
You are engulfed with rage, red and irresistible. You’re trying to bolt out of Fosco’s grasp. You want to claw Otto’s eyes out; you want to put a bullet in him. As you struggle, you catch a glimpse of the Jacuzzi. You don’t see Mimi anymore.
“Wait,” you plead, but nobody hears you over the noise. You look desperately at Fosco. “Where’s Mimi?!”
Once he figures out what you’re trying to say, he whirls towards the Jacuzzi. “No!” he bellows, releasing you, and careens across the courtyard. You dash after him. Now the others understand, and they come running too. You see it just before Fosco dives in: there is a shadow at the bottom of the Jacuzzi. When he bursts up though the roiling water, he is carrying Mimi, limp and unconscious and blue.
Everyone is shouting at once. Fosco lays Mimi down on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Criston sends Ludwika to call an ambulance, kneels beside Mimi, checks for a pulse. Then he begins CPR. When he breathes air into her flooded lungs, there is no response, no resurrection.
“No, no, no, she has to be alright!” Aemond says, and everyone knows why. If she’s not, this will consume the headlines for days: no victorious campaigning, no speeches or photos, just a drowned alcoholic with a damning autopsy report.
“Oh my god,” Otto moans, pacing. “This can’t be happening, not this year, not now…”
Alicent seizes your hand and squeezes it until you think it will break. She is reciting prayers in Greek. Helaena is curled up under a butterfly bush, sobbing hysterically. When he realizes this, Otto hurries to comfort her.
“Don’t watch, Helaena. Let’s go inside, I’ll walk with you, there’s nothing more we can do here.”
“Mimi?!” Aegon commands, slapping her hard across the face. “Mimi, come on, wake up! Mimi? Mimi!” She’s still motionless, she’s still blue. Aegon turns to you, blood smeared all over the right side of his face. He’s petrified, he’s in shock. “I think she’s…she’s…”
“She’s gone,” Criston says; and he lifts his palms from her hollow body. The silent sky above is a labyrinth of bad stars.
310 notes · View notes
siribaes · 1 year ago
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FEELIN’ IT
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KOFI SIRIBOE X blackfem!reader
SUGGESTED TUNES 💿: Drank In My Cup by Kirko Bangz, Drunk in Love by Beyoncé, Refill by Elle Varner
WARNING: 18+, SMUT, Henny D*ck from Kofi lol, praise kink, semi-rough s*x, unprotected pinv (wrap it up kids)
AUTHOR’S NOTE: beware of typos & mistakes lol, and this one is for my petite girlies (*cough* self-insert) / GIF CREDIT: @tishrivers
Low rumbles of movement awoke Y/N from her sleep. Y/N stirred for a moment as the movements continued, shifting slight in her spot. She cracked one eye room, immediately welcomed by the pitch blackness of the room except the silver of neon light from a side table clock.
2:16 AM.
He’s home.
Y/N yawned as she sat up from her bed. Stretching her arms and legs she flipped the blanket off her, getting up from the bed. Y/N softly padded out of the bedroom and downstairs to the source of the noise.
She could see a shadow stretch from the kitchen and into the hallway. Smiling slightly to herself, Y/N tip toed her way to the kitchen. Her smile grew wider as she saw the culprit behind the noise.
He stood with the fridge partially open, the light illuminating his beautiful angular features. His brows were furrowed, as his coca-cola brown, yet borderline blood shot red eyes scanned the shelves of the refrigerator. Y/N chuckled softly at his expression while he had spoon held in his mouth. Y/N’s eyes traveled to the island where a large bowl filled with ice cream sat. Immediately she knew what he was searching for.
“Kofi,” Y/N spoke aloud. Immediately Kofi turned to her, taking the spoon out of his mouth. A slow syrupy smile grew from his lips.
“Yeah?”
“Bottom left drawer.”
It took a second for the information to sink in, for Kofi in his buzzed haze. It did though, Kofi’s eyes lit up, his smile grew even wider, as he turned back to the fridge. He bent down opening the drawer and pulling out a brown bottle of chocolate sauce.
“You the G.O.A.T., baby,” he murmured as he closed the fridge.
Y/N walked to the island, watching Kofi pour a generous amount of chocolate sauce onto his ice cream. He took a huge spoonful and shoved into his mouth. A groan erupted from him, a dangerous one that should’ve not sent tingles through Y/N body, but did anyway. He had that effect on her always.
“It’s good?” Y/N asked. She lifted herself up and sat on the island counter next to Kofi. She caught huge whiff of the Hennessey he must've been sipping on from earlier on.
“I fucks with this Vegan ice cream heavy,” Kofi proclaimed, pointing his spoon at the bowl.
He took another spoonful as his gaze dipped towards Y/N’s bare legs, it fully registering her sleep attire, a huge Destiny’s Child band t-shirt and short shorts. His eyes traveled back upwards to Y/N’s gaze, a bit more heated than previously.
“You taste better tho,”
“Kofi, don’t start,” Y/N chuckled, playfully swatting his arm. He jokingly cowered and continued to devour his dessert. “How was the club? Y’all have fun?”
He nodded slowly, setting the spoon to the side, and scratched at his beard.
“Yeah. Good vibes. Good music too...Tre was in better spirits since the split," Kofi mused, his eyes slightly danced as he absentmindedly scratched at his beard. He turned towards Y/N peering down at her. Large, calloused hands found themselves at the soft flesh of her legs, the pads of his thumbs rubbed on the tops of her thighs. A warmth bloomed underneath Y/N's skin, while butterflies flew around in her stomach, and dampness pooled in her panties. "You should've been there with me."
A soft moan threatened to escape Y/N's lips, she choked it back before she spoke.
"M-Me? Be responsible for interrupting boys' night, I dunno about that, baby."
Kofi tipped his head to the side, a sly grin bloomed across his lips. A flicker of mischief appeared in his eyes. He stopped rubbing at Y/N's thighs and instead gave them gentle squeeze. Y/N whimpered slightly, causing Kofi's grin to grow even more.
"Maybe it was a good thing, I was bricked up thinkin' about you, anyway," Y/N's eyes slowly trail down, seeing the large print behind his black jeans. Kofi palmed himself and groaned. "You gon' help me, pretty girl."
Y/N nodded quickly, immediately bringing Kofi down to her, crashing her lips against his. Initially, a kiss that was heated and messy, turned slow, and passionate. Kofi's tongue swirled around in her mouth, she tastes the sweetness of the vanilla ice cream and chocolate, with the slight bitterness from the Hennessey. He kissed her so softly and sweetly, that it put Y/N a daze. It was all mere distraction, as Kofi slid his right hand down her shorts curling two fingers inside of Y/N.
"Kofi," Y/N whimpered as Kofi's fingers began to slowly pump in and out of her. "Fuck, baby!"
Kofi peppered kisses on the side of her face, nibbling on the outer shell of her ear.
"I feel you tightin' up, let me see ya pretty ass cum, baby," Kofi drawled, his LA-New Orleans accent slipping through, spurred Y/N even more.
The pleasure began to pulse through her as she felt herself clenching around Kofi's thick fingers.
"I'm-I'm gonna cum baby, fuck!" Y/N mewled.
"Let go, baby. I gotchu," Kofi rasps.
Her orgasm pooled out of her, flooding Kofi's fingers. He thrusted his fingers a few more times before he pulled his fingers out of her. Y/N slightly pouted at the lost of Kofi's touch. He chuckled softly before he sucked on his two fingers, swirling his pink tongue around them.
"Turn around for me," Y/N happily obliged, she quickly discarded her shorts and panties, flinging them to the side. She turned and faced the counter. Y/N stood on her tippy toes, excitement rushed through her as she heard the sounds of Kofi undoing his pants. Y/N almost crumbled as Kofi's rubbed the head of his dick between her soft, wet folds.
"Don't play, Kofi. I need you," Y/N whined, attempting to draw him further inside of her.
Kofi's hand came crashing down on Y/N's ass, it echoed throughout the kitchen. She yelped, slapping her own hands against the marble counter.
"Relax, Y/N" Kofi groaned has he continued to rub himself in her folds. "So fuckin' hard-headed, gimme a minute baby,"
"Sorry, "Y/N moaned quietly.
After a few more seconds of teasing, Y/N's prayers were answered as Kofi finally plunged into her warmth, completely bottoming out before he began to drill into her.
“You feel too good baby," He's deep inside now, with his large hands gripping at Y/N's waist, Kofi continues to grind his dick into her, with rough, sloppy strokes. "Fuck you so tight, all this shit for me?"
Y/N could feel herself gushing at just the tone of his voice. A sweetness managed to cut through all of the hoarseness and lust. It always drove her crazy when he did shit like that. The familiar thrumming of her orgasm, hurdled towards the surface, she squeezed and tightened around him. Kofi moaned at Y/N gripping him.
"You close?" Kofi asked, already knowing the answer to his question.
"Yes baby, I'm gonna," Y/N's orgasm shot through her before she could finish. She whined and moaned as Kofi continued to fuck her through it.
"You still with me pretty girl?" Kofi rasped in her ear.
“Mhmmm, Kofi, shit!” Y/N babbled, her mind only zeroed in the pleasure between her legs. It was too much trying to keep with Kofi too.
Kofi grabbed a fistful Y/N’s coils bringing her upwards, not all the way, but far enough that she couldn’t use the counter to support herself.
“I said, you still with me pretty girl, hm?”
Y/N nodded. A sharp slap on her ass caused her to whine, a small punishment for not responding. Whether he liked to admit or not, Kofi was a words kinda guy. He loved to hear how he made you feel, even if it was garble of incoherent nonsense, he needed to know that you were there with him, present for it all. Still, the words choked on her tongue. Another slap, harder than the last, had Y/N squirming underneath Kofi. Another slap was soon to follow, but Y/N responded before he could.
“Yessss, baby I’m with you! Fuck meeee!"
"Fuck, I'm about to nut. You gon' take this shit like a good girl, huh?"
"I will baby, fuck, give it to me please!"
Kofi went into overdrive, fucking Y/N wildly. She felt him swell inside of her. His bulbous hammered at her spot, sending her into throws of pleasure, so much so she felt tears prickle in her eyes.
"You so pretty takin' me, fuck I'm cumin'," Kofi groaned as he spilled inside of Y/N. They both shook and moaned together, as Kofi slowly fucked his cum inside of her. He slowly slipped out of her, his breath on Y/N's sweat-slicked skin. Kofi tapped his finger Y/N's waist, signaling her to face him. She turned around only to be greeted by his glistening, cum-dripped, shaft. It was still hard.
"I wanna see that pretty ass face when I cum inside you," He proclaimed, slipping right back inside Y/N, ready for round 2.
337 notes · View notes
twobitsblade · 1 year ago
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Hi! Could you please do general head canons for Dallas, like what do you think his interests or hobbies might be? I really like the dating head canons you’ve done! Also I’m pretty new to the outsiders fandom and I feel a little outta place cause everyone I’ve come across seems to have been a fan for a long time lol. I noticed your blog is fairly new so I was wondering if you’re also new to the fandom as well!
hi, yes, of course i can do that; and thank you so much, i'm so glad you like the dating dallas headcanons! and no, i'm not new to the fandom, but i'm most definitely new to tumblr -- and the fandom is super lucky to have you! <3
NOTE: if you have sent me a request, please be patient; especially, if you’ve sent in a longer request such as a story. i want to make my work to the best of my abilities for you guys!
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GENERAL DALLAS WINSTON HEADCANONS!
enjoys playing darts and card games (AKA gambling; and just between you and me, he has a gambling problem.)
has tried to secretly quit smoking, but failed multiple times.
only dates girls for their looks and when he interacts with a girl he doesn't find attractive, he'll ignore her AKA pretend she doesn't exist.
catcalls girls on the street; with no hesitation 😭 (i'm not sure if this is a headcanon or actually occurred in the book, but whatever..)
thinks it's funny to give people wet willies.
loves coca-cola and pepsi but hates sprite and ice-tea.
can barely read or write a singular sentence and forces ponyboy to help him.
dally [in my opinion] idolizes darry, and wants to be like him in certain regards.
dallas would be a great person to have late-night, philosophical conversations with, when he’s drunk.
hated wearing wear chunky jewelry (i.e thick rings and bracelets with “masculine” desgins like snakes and whatnot.) but wears it ever since darry made a random comment about how “tuff” it made him look.
10. low-key suffers from fragile masculinity.
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ashwhowrites · 1 year ago
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Hiya, Mommy! I've got an idea for you (that might be kinda close to home)
So we know that Eddie obviously is from Indiana... let's see how he'd handle having a partner from the south. You can either do established or not, up to you. But I just wanna watch Eddie's confusion when his partner says some shit like... "grab me a buggy please" 🤭🤭
I absolutely love this ! I hope this is what you wanted <3 I love you, handsome
I'm high right now so I pray everything is written like I was sober
Different slang blurb
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Eddie liked having a Southern on his arm, loving their thick drawl, and the additional attitude. But he often forgets they grew up in different places, and it showed.
~~~
"Can you grab me a buggy?" They said, eyes looking down at the grocery list. Eddie stopped walking, confused as he stared at his partner.
"Eds?" They said, realizing Eddie wasn't near them. They turned around and saw a blank stare on Eddie's face.
"A what?" He asked
"Buggy," They said, pointing to the mental carts.
"What the fuck is a buggy? You mean a cart?" Eddie spazzed, thrashing his hands toward the carts.
"A cart? No, it's a buggy." They repeated, rolling their eyes as they walked over and yanked one-off.
~~~
"And then, he fucking killed me! I didn't even know friendly fire was on!" Eddie complained, that game night at Dustin's went south. They adored how into their games Eddie could get, but this was hilarious.
"Oh bless," they said, shaking their head as they smiled. Trying to get into his complaint with him.
"Bless? I didn't sneeze!" Eddie sighed, "You aren't even listening to me!"
Y/N rolled their eyes at Eddie's small tantrum, laughing behind their hand.
~~~
"BOOM, I tripped and smacked my head into the wall!" Eddie explained, telling the story of how clumsy he was.
"Bless your heart." Y/N sighed, shaking their head as they listened to the story. Eddie wasn't sure what that meant. But he assumed they found his clumsy actions adorable.
"thank you?" He replied, a little confused still by the new phrase.
"For?" They asked, confused
"The compliment? My clumsiness was adorable and it like blessed my heart." He explained
"Oh! You're welcome!" They said, sometimes with Eddie, it was easier to go with what he believed in. He didn't need to know it was closer to an insult than a compliment. He was adorable and they adored that he thought it was a compliment.
~~~
"What do you want for a drink?" Eddie asked, grabbing spare change as he jumped out of the van, Y/N stayed in the car listening to music.
"A coke." They said, pecking Eddie's lips as he ran to their window before going inside.
Eddie walked in, and went for the pop section. His eyes searched for the cokes. Eddie quickly grabbed the red bottle and his drink. He got extra snacks and headed out.
He passed the bag over to Y/N, they placed it near their feet as Eddie settled in.
"Which coke did you grab?" They asked, curious as to what Eddie picked.
"Umm a coke, that's what you asked for. And don't tell me it wasn't. Because you said "a coke so don't try me." Eddie explained, already defensive.
"But which kind of coke?" They asked
"Regular! You didn't say you wanted a certain type." He explained, growing energized.
"You didn't ask which one I wanted!" Y/N explained, digging into the bag. Their eyes spotted a Coca-Cola.
"Baby, that's a coco-cola, I said a coke." Y/N sighed, rubbing their face in frustration.
"I literally don't hear a difference !" Eddie spazzed again.
"A coke is all the different kinds. Coca-Cola is that specific brand! To you, it might be like soda or pop?" They explained more
"A POP? A coke is a kind of pop. Not pop in general!" Eddie freaked out. He has never heard that meaning in his life.
"POP? THAT'S SO EW. ITS A COKEEEEEEE!"
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headmateelevator · 19 days ago
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hold the door!! someone's coming in!
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name(s) - Tommy , Theseus , Sage , Amaryllis , Cole , Hide , Imp , Raccoon , Icarus , Rascal , Auburn , Rouge , Bandit , Dire , Mutt.
pronouns - he / it / disc / song / axe / bloom / imp / bite / lone / cringe / pog / lake / stick / fanta / fire / demon / fang / blood / moo / boom / bark / fun / red / shout / game.
gender(s) - transmasc , happycolorsgender , happygender , tommyInnitCharic , Demongender , Bitething , muttial , thingmutt , boymutt , traumamutt , muttfreak , weirdpup , muttlexic , partygender , confettigender , loudpartygender , sillynsilliergender , Fungender , Goofygoobergender , Hapifriendix , Happygender , Partygender , Sillymaxxed.
orientations - bisexual , demiaroace.
role(s) - trauma holder , mood booster , rehabilitator , double agent.
species - humany demony thing.
source(s) - c!tommyinnit , DSMP.
emoji(s) - 🩹 , 🖍️ , 🌈 , 🎨 , ⛺ , 🏚️ , 🪵
likes - records , discs , music , animals , cool sticks , diet Coca-Cola , the color red , dragons , Fanta , oranges , trains , flowers.
dislikes - silence , sudden loud noises or movements , loneliness , being cold , injury.
front triggers - fun things , music imp enjoys , minecraft music , raccoons , source things , sourcemates , another fronter feeling unsafe.
personality description - very excitable and generally talkative, loves being around friends and trusted people and will talk their ear off for hours when he gets the chance. though he can get easily nervous or scared in unfamiliar situations, or when he's around crowds of untrusted people or on his own. will be very wary of some sourcemates at first, and will be slow to talk to them, though if he's given time he will warm up to them.
typing quirk - all caps, rarely punctuation other than exclamation marks. (ex: THE QUICK BROWN FOX JUMPS OVER THE LAZY DOG!!)
typing example / small message - HELLO ALL!!! I AM WRITING A MESSAGE BUT I DONT KNOW WHAT TO WRITE IT ABOUT!!!!! SO I AM WRITING IT ABOUT JUST THAT!!! I HOPE YOU ARE HAVING A VERY GOOD DAY!!!! GOODBYE!!!!!!!!!!
faceclaims -
( 1 - 2 - 3 )
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cloudmail-bah · 1 month ago
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hello! could i get a headmate based on coca cola and just general soda/pop?
masc and/or fem aligned nonbinary. masculine presentation. no he/she/they. around 15ish years old? very loud and energetic personality. species = (half?) devil? horns + wings + tail you know.
some emojis: ❤💥🥤☀️🔥🌡🧊❄💧🌊⛱‼️
thank you!!
i tried my best !! hope you enjoy it !!! :3
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☁️ Requested Package 📬 Coca Cola !!
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💌 headmates may not turn out exactly as the information below! that's perfectly fine, pick and choose what works💕
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Names: Cola, Soda, Pop, Sugar, Devil, Angel, Sara, Gabriel, Lucifer, Raphael, Belial, Rocket, Toms
Pronouns: it/its, xe/xir, ey/em/eir, halo/halos, god/gods, feather/feathers, wing/wings, devil/devils, angel/angels, demon/demons, fire/fires, holy/holys, unholy/unholy, sugar/sugars, pop/pops, cola/colas
Genders / Orientations: Non-binary / Pansexual, Aromantic, Nebularomantic
Age: 14-16 years old
Species: Fallen Angel / Demon Angel Hybrid!
Roles: Socializer, Mood Booster, Intimidator, Impersonator
Sources: n/a (soda?)
Likes: Soda, summer, holidays, parties, pools, swimming, making friends, music, making playlists, playing video games, teasing friends, being weird, making tier lists tbh, karaoke, dogs
Dislikes: coffee, being alone, quiet, being annoying / accidentally annoying people, being too much
Personality: loud, energetic, playful, two faced sometimes, blunt, stubborn
Faceclaims: 🥤 🌊 🪽
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Extra: favorite colour is #980e0e i think! definitely gets into yelling matches with people it loves
Sign Off / Emojis: 🥤, 🌊, 🪽, ⛱️, 💥
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erinelliotc · 1 year ago
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About me
Welcome to my safe space! (mostly an Ed, Edd n Eddy blog)
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I'm Érin Elliot Eddward Marion Mason (I'd appreciate being called Double D, Edd or Dudu (Edd's nickname in Brazil) too ^^). My pronouns are they/them and he/him. I'm nonbinary trans (pomogender, quoigender, agender, genderqueer, libramasc and boyflux).
I'm Brazilian, 24 years old (born in June 15th, 2000), autistic, Double D kinnie (most of my Double D's analyses are me projecting myself onto him) and EddEddy shipper. Ed, Edd n Eddy is my biggest special interest! I'm both an Eddy apologist and an Edd apologist, I'll defend these bitches with all my heart and soul.
You can find my edits here! (they're mostly EEnE edits)
You can get to know about my history with Ed, Edd n Eddy here!
My fanarts
My EEnE content (my own posts and my comments on reblogs)
And ALL my EEnE content here (includes reblogs)!
MY FUTURE EEnE PROJECTS:
My EEnE fanfics and comics:
Stories that will be like episodes of the show, but with more drama and/or romance, with my headcanons, and usually longer. All of my stories will be EddEddy, either as the main focus or just in the background, so if you don't like this ship it's better not to read them. Depending on the direction the story takes it can take place in an alternate universe (AU) because I can have different ideas and headcanons that can't coexist. Some stories may contain darker and/or NSFW (+18) content and will be appropriately marked and tagged as such
Self-insert AU where I'm Edd and Eddy's adopted kid. I'll also add other characters / OCs that are insertions of real people from my life
Short comics about real stories and events with my self-insert OC and real people from my life (mainly with my best friend Mel), but adapted and set within the universe of EEnE
Self-insert AU where I'm Edd's younger sibling (same age as Sarah and/or Jimmy)
My hobbies and skills:
I consider myself a good:
1. Writer
2. Crocheter
3. Editor
I consider myself an amateur/average:
1. Artist
2. Singer
I also love:
Will Wood
Deltarune/Undertale
Arcane
Death Note
Gravity Falls
Infinity Train
The Owl House
Over The Garden Wall
The Office
Sally Face
Five Nights at Freddy's
Demon Slayer
Little Witch Academia
Amphibia
Favorite 90s/00s cartoons from my childhood:
Ed, Edd n Eddy
SpongeBob SquarePants
The Fairly OddParents
Phineas and Ferb
The Powerpuff Girls
Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends
Codename: Kids Next Door
Courage the Cowardly Dog
Dexter's Laboratory
Pucca
Hi Hi Puffy AmiYumi
Hey Arnold! (I never really watched it, but for some reason I've always loved content related to this cartoon, like videos and fanarts)
Things I like: pink, yellow (golden and mustard), blue-green/green-blue colors, cuteness, weirdness! weird stuff! weird people!, organization, archiving data, ducks, cats, roly polies/pill bugs, caterpillars, snails, moths, bees, mushrooms, dandelions, sunflowers, rainbows, soap bubbles, autumn/spring, cloudy and rainy weather, the fire element, nature/living beings in general, fairies, plushies, taking pics, editing videos, writing, music, cartoons (especially 90s/00s), bubble wrap, LGBTQ+ content (especially lesbian/sapphic/wlw), hot chocolate, chocolate milk, fries, neugebauer chocolate (milk), coca-cola, brownie, savory food, likes mealy apples more than crunchy apples, puns, spending time alone, working on my personal projects, dedicating myself to my hyperfixations, wearing comfy clothes (usually pajamas), brain-training games, learning, stimming, singing
Things I dislike: changes, lack of order, jumpscare/scares, interruptions, too many people, leaving my house, cold/winter, sun, beach, traveling, public speaking/presentation, passion fruit, tomato, guava paste, white chocolate, cold savory food, get dirty eating, sticky and creamy substances on my skin, physical activity, bugs climbing/walking on me without my consent and prior preparation, people yelling at me and/or being harsh/agressive with me, not being understood
Some of my areas of interest are:
Information Science (Archivology and Library Science)
Psychology (and health area in general)
Biology
Journalism
Design
SOCIAL MEDIA:
Linktree (all my links): https://linktr.ee/ErinElliotC
Carrd:
Português: https://erinmini.carrd.co/
English: https://erinmini.carrd.co/#carrdeng
TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@erinelliotc
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@Esquikoko
Twitch: https://www.twitch.tv/pato__magico
Instagram (main account): https://www.instagram.com/ErinElliotC
Instagram (art account): https://www.instagram.com/EddwarDrawings
Twitter (main account): https://twitter.com/AutisticQueer
Twitter (art account): https://twitter.com/DoubleDrawings
This was my main blog (Esquikoko) but I don't use it anymore
I have an abandoned blog to post pictures of roly polies
Read this in case I die disappear from social media
Some other stuff about me:
I'm a Visual Communication (Graphic Design) Technician (I don't really work with that though)
I'm a crocheter (still learning)
Undergraduate program: currently studying Library Science (4/8 semesters); I also studied Psychology for 5/10 semesters and Journalism for 1/8 semester
Height: 5'1 (1,55 m)
MBTI: ISFJ
Enneagram: 9w1
Instinctual Variant: sp/so
Moral alignment: Neutral good
Orientation: Asexual, aromantic and lesbian
Astrological sign: Gemini (sun), Cancer (rising), Sagittarius (moon)
Favorite musical artists/bands:
Will Wood (and the Tapeworms)
Cavetown
Grouplove
Miracle Musical
Lemon Demon
Melanie Martinez
Aurora
Baby Fuzz
Hungry Hearts
The Living Tombstone
Mitski
MARINA
Toby Fox
Oingo Boingo
P!nk
Pitty
Green Day
Lily Allen
Lady Gaga
Tally Hall
Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw would be my second house
Spirituality: Witch and agnostic
Get to know a little about my musical taste here!
Special interests/current, recurrent and/or fixed hyperfixations: Ed Edd n Eddy, Will Wood, autism, mental disorders, genetic mutations, organization, Deltarune, Arcane, Death note, Gravity Falls, Cellbit, The Owl House, Over The Garden Wall, The Office, Sally Face, intersexuality, lesbianity, transgenerity, asexuality, cats, barism (specialty in making coffee), Brazil Avenue (Avenida Brasil)
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hispieceofcake · 8 months ago
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🪲MY EXPERIENCE WATCHING BEETLEJUICE (1988 MOVIE)🧃
Maybe no one will care about this post but I really wanted to do it and share what it was like for me after years of watching this movie again (and with friends in school).
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Well, for starters, it was truly one of the best experiences I've had with my friends, it was actually quite entertaining and funny to watch. We took the key to the school auditorium and put the film on a big screen and turned off the lights and locked the door so only we could enter. We also took several snacks to eat during the film, such as Coca Cola, chips, cake, popcorn, Fini candies, chocolate milk, various things, it was almost the same as a real cinema.
This is a video that I recorded in the scene where Beetlejuice appears in the film in the cemetery scene, like most of the people who read my content but for people who don't know, I'm from Brazil, and I will translate any lines we had during the film. In this video it was practically me shouting "DO YOU SEE? IT'S THE MAN!!.
We laughed at this scene but we also found it very "suspicious" Beetlejuice barely appears and starts kissing the first woman he sees, as well as lifting her skirt to try to see what was underneath, but anyway, Beetlejuice being Beetlejuice. It was also funny that my friend copied Adam trying to separate Beetlejuice from Barbara (because let's face it guys, he practically just gave Beetlejuice a light tap to let her go, Bj It must not have even felt lmao, my friend was practically poking me with her finger saying "stop, leave my wife alone!!!😭😭).
We started watching the movie last week and we finished it today because we used the break to watch it, and in that break we only have an hour and twenty minutes and we had to pack our things to put on the movie, get the snacks, so it took a while.
Not to mention that while we were relaxing in the air conditioning with padded chairs, watching a movie and eating snacks, everyone else at school was on break in the scorching heat 😔😔. (Poor things lmao)
In general it was a great experience, the film's sets were very beautiful and well made for the time it was made (1988) and not to mention Beetlejuice (my man) who had a perfect performance in addition to be a very funny character (of course, apart from the harassment jokes), the only thing I really found a little pointless was the way Adam and Barbara died, like, they just hit the wall of that wooden bridge and fell into the river, of course there was the option of them drowning trapped inside the car, but they could have escaped from there through the windows of the car, But the film was still great, I highly recommend it, I give ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐.
Well, that's it for now folks, I plan to do a post later on about "things I saw in the Beetlejuice movie that a lot of people didn't notice", and a post about what I expect in the film's sequel, as I noticed several things in the film's trailer that left me a little hesitant about it.
Well, thank you for your attention, kisses in your heart 💗
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themagical-soup-spaghetti · 1 month ago
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Hi, I love your DNDHAT modern HCs! I'd love to see your takes on Kira, Forge, and the two Red Wizards, if that's okay?
A/N: Yeah, I got you (⁠^⁠∇⁠^⁠)⁠ノ⁠♪
Dungeons and Dragons: Honor Among Thieves Headcanons
Modern Day Edition!!
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Kira
Hello Kitty collection is the most expensive thing she owns and she always asks for more when she sees something in a store or online
Holga always buys her new Hello Kitty things
Has a Hello Kitty themed computer and computer setup
Plays Stardew Valley + other games of the like. Her favorite character is probably Vincent or Evelyn
Plays Animal Crossing: New Horizons on her switch (Which is also Hello Kitty Themed) and her favorite character is Molly
Takes HOURS to do her hair for events so she just does her hair the day before and fixes it in the morning
LOVES Coca Cola, but only the orange vanilla or cherry ones
Has a mini fridge in her room with chocolates, drinks, and other things
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Forge Fitzwilliam
SUPER super rich
Prolly still a con man 🤷🏽
Wants to buy himself a castle but can't cause he never wants to actually look for one
Thinks he's so charismatic but he actually isn't.
Like at all.
Can't sing
Likes to spend his money on useless stuff like a peacock and ostrich that he ends up giving away
Owns a zoo somewhere in the world
Probably isn't friends with anyone from the main group after attempting to scam a major ally
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Sofina
Still bald (by choice)
DEFINITELY NOT a people person
Probably wears a cloak everywhere cause she's always cold
Definitely loves red
HATES Christmas
Hates holidays in general honestly 💔
Probably tries to rope people into rituals that like never work
Still practices magic
Has like 2 close friends
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Dralas
Xenk's biggest hater
One of Sofinas only friends
Also probably tries to rope people into her rituals that fail all the time
Lives in a forest somewhere
Hates holidays
Hates music
Probably tried to kidnap one of the main people just because he didn't want them to be happy 💔
Also not a people person
Probably has a big ass dog at home
A/N: Hope you enjoyed (⁠つ⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)⁠つ
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katherine-ellen-mellors · 7 months ago
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~ GROUP POST ~
Hi!
Welcome to our group project!
The aim for our game is to create a haunted mystery game, where the player must navigate their way through the haunted hotel to find clues that solve the murder.
They must avoid or scare away the ghosts, find the correct rooms and interact with the resident NPCs to find the hidden clues.
When all clues are found, the murder mystery can be solved. But be careful, as the ghosts can scare you too...
Let's Introduce our team!
Katherine Mellors - Animation
"Hello! my name is Katherine and I will be focusing on the creation of the interactable sprites you will find in the game. This includes the player character, movable tiles, the murder victim, ghosts AND the NPCs you will talk to throughout your investigation! A little bit about me- I love to draw and listen to music far too loud for a normal person. I have a cat and I am addicted to drinking coca cola"
Denniel Ko - Programming
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Andrew Cook - Level Design
"Hi I'm Andrew and I will be focusing on level design for the game, mainly the main room and the hotel suite rooms. I will be creating the tile sprites for the rooms and other small item sprites such as lights, stairs and doors. About me- I love doing computer based design projects. From buildings, interiors to general layout designs... so in other words... level design 🤣 Whenever I play a new game O often find myself focusing on the design rather than things like story or progression, and will spend hours aimlessly roaming the map (looks at Hogwarts Legacy hours tracked 🤡)"
Cong B - Level Design
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reasoningdaily · 10 months ago
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ScienceAlert: FDA to Finally Outlaw Soda Ingredient Prohibited Around The World
An ingredient once commonly used in citrus-flavored sodas to keep the tangy taste mixed thoroughly through the beverage could finally be banned for good across the US.
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The FDA proposed in November to revoke the registration of a modified vegetable oil known as BVO in the wake of recent toxicology studies that make it difficult to support its ongoing use.
"The proposed action is an example of how the agency monitors emerging evidence and, as needed, conducts scientific research to investigate safety related questions, and takes regulatory action when the science does not support the continued safe use of additives in foods," James Jones, FDA deputy commissioner for human foods, explained when announcing the proposal.
BVO, or brominated vegetable oil, has been used as an emulsifying agent since the 1930s to ensure citrus flavoring agents don't float to the top of sodas. Sticking a dozen bromine atoms to a triglyceride creates a dense oil that floats evenly throughout water when mixed with less dense fats.
Yet that's not BVO's only trick. Animal studies have strongly implied the compound can slowly build up in our fat tissues. With bromine's potential ability to prevent iodine from doing its all-important work inside the thyroid, health authorities around the world have been suspicious of the emulsifier's risks for decades.
In fact, BVO is already banned in many countries, including India, Japan, and nations of the European Union, and was outlawed in the state of California in October 2022 with legislation due to take effect in 2027.
Yet the FDA has been slow to convince. In the 1950s, the agency regarded the ingredient as generally recognized as safe (GRAS); an official classification afforded items that have either been appropriately tested or – for ingredients in common use prior to 1958 – don't appear to be harmful.
That changed the following decade when questions were raised over its possible toxicity, prompting the FDA to overturn its GRAS classification for BVO and temporarily limit its use to relatively small concentrations of no more than 15 parts per million exclusively in citrus-flavored drinks.
Data on the risks posed by even these small amounts of BVO over time hasn't been easy to collect, relying heavily on long-term studies that re-evaluate health effects in a significantly-sized sample of people. Yet the evidence has been slowly mounting.
A UK study in the 1970s found bromine was building up in human tissues, with animal studies linking high concentrations of BVO with heart and behavioral problems.
It's taken time, and a number of further studies, but on the back of more recent animal studies based on relative concentrations of BVO humans are likely to ingest, the FDA is finally convinced there is sufficient evidence to ban its use altogether.
Most major soda drink companies are fortunately ahead of the game. PepsiCo and Coca-Cola Co. have been phasing the ingredient out of their products over the past decade.
"Over the years many beverage makers reformulated their products to replace BVO with an alternative ingredient, and today, few beverages in the US contain BVO," said Jones.
The ban could be a sign of more things to come, with Jones announcing the agency is reviewing regulations that authorize the use of certain food additives, with a view to automatically prohibit the approval of any food coloring agents found to cause cancer in humans or animals, making for a more nimble bureaucratic process.
A final call on the FDA's reclassification of BVO still needs to go through a lengthy review process that will take time to complete.
With suitable alternatives to BVO already being used to make citrus drinks around the world taste tangy down to the very last drop, the ingredient isn't likely to be missed.
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bandzboy · 8 months ago
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Just when you think it can't possibly get any worse, it does
"In celebration of the launch, Cola-Cola and JYP Entertainment have brought K-pop stars Stray Kids, ITZY, and NMIXX together to create a new song titled Like Magic.
But the goodies don’t stop there. Macca’s is also giving one lucky customer and a friend the chance to win an unforgettable trip to Korea.
This generous prize includes return flights, four nights’ accommodation and tickets to a K-pop concert featuring Stray Kids, ITZY, NMIXX and more."
So now it's not just cc but also mcdonalds?
Source: https://www.perthnow.com.au/lifestyle/coca-cola-creations-and-mcdonalds-have-teamed-up-to-create-limited-edition-frozen-coke-k-wave-c-14413330.amp
now that’s
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alfnsinas-a · 2 years ago
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   ‘me parece muy injusto que me vayan a hacer preguntas de cultura general cuando nadie aquí sabe ubicar mi país en el mapa’ sentada en césped lindero al edificio, bebe de su botella de coca cola. no piensa leer un solo libro de los que dejaron. ‘¿tú sabes algo de todo esto?’
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