@aquisces-arts wanted to see what the suitors would look like in modern clothes, so I did my best conceptualizing what each would wear and why.
Let’s start with King Byron:
Byron dresses very monochromatically– wearing different shades of black head to toe, and choosing gold accents that catch the light.
If you look at his hair, you can see that his wisps are very controlled. Even his cowlick is styled neatly. He would probably use a light pomade. The details on the jeans give texture without distraction, like his black casual shirt in the game.
The gold zipper on the knees also satisfies his love of gold hardware. If you notice, Byron does not wear jewelry aside from his earring, which he shares with Nico, so I think a planetary key chain would be a good choice for him, as it combines his star-gazing hobby with an outlet for an accessory.
Of course, a Rolex is a must, and I think he would always give himself a chaste spritz of cologne before stepping out of the door. This scent is unisex and has a dry-down that smells of vanilla, woods and leather.
I don’t think he would shy away from stylish shoes– he may even be a subtle trend-setter. Because Byron can hold his liquor with the best of them, and because he doesn’t tend to let himself get too casual out in the open, I thought martini glass novelty socks would be a fun twist. It would be his own little secret. While it may not be that wild of a thing for the rest of us, considering Byron’s aloof personality, he may feel that it really is daring indeed.
O happy dagger! My breasts thy sheath; breasts, no, that cannot be, these cannot belong to me.
I am haunted by body parts that are not mine.
Dysphoria. I long for the days I do not feel your cruel bite, stinging into a part of me that has nowhere to cower. But cower I do - I take baths with bubbles because I learned the hard way that if you scratch at your chest, the chest that cannot belong to you, if you scratch at it long enough, it will bleed.
Marc Antony orates that good is oft interred with one’s bones. I look down and I see my wide hips and wonder how good can be interred in bones that aren’t mine. If I die now, these bones will not be mine. These bones will never be good enough. Do I have to wait for death to be good?
How can good be buried harmoniously with deceit? If my bones are excavated, an archaeologist will unknowingly toss ‘it’s a woman’ over their shoulder, with a gentle look at my wide hips.
You say God made me perfect, and that he doesn’t make mistakes.
I’ve never been perfect, but the only mistake is the ferocity with which society tightens its grip around my neck.
Woe is the gender binary which within I am restricted. Woe says the voice that these constructs constrict.
It’s a strange feeling. A feeling so personal and intimate, so completely intrinsic, you cannot describe it to someone.
This is tears in the bathroom reading texts from people I thought supported me. This is biting my tongue at the dentist, at the grocery store, when I meet old friends, extended family, because they don’t know. This is talking in third person to get used to using my pronouns, because if he misgenders himself that gives everyone else permission, right?
This is chopping off my hair and shopping for chest binders at two in the morning and accidentally coming out to my mother.
This is sobbing into my pillow.
This is being triggered by the flash of my reflection in a stranger’s phone case, someone making an offhand comment about the size of my feet or the pitch of my voice, walking next to someone who is taller than me.
But triggers don’t tell you how long it will last, how hard you will fall, what will be at the bottom when you do.
What venom will seep into my bloodstream, will it be ice or fire that burns my skin, I just don’t know - it doesn’t make sense,
Will it fit together, will it be jaded and choppy, will I struggle over just
choosing simple words?
How do I tell someone, that if my body is a temple, then the temple constructed for a goddess belongs to another deity? The architecture expects Aphrodite, and refuses change, though everything I am refutes goddess.
I am no queen, I am no goddess, but I deserve a crown. I deserve a temple.
I have been thinking about letting my hair grow
I have been thinking about cutting it short
I have been thinking about dying it yellow
But I don’t think I have the bone structure or wardrobe to support that type of look