#technicolour

[photocyclelog]

Not the Mediterranean in fact…

But the west coast of Scotland when the light and tide are just right. Glorious colours by the sea today. High tide with shallow water covering white shell sand and seaweed. Tomorrow it will be entirely grey, if the forecast is correct

Photo: 24th April 2025

[misskohane]

"Wild Piriapolis"

circa 1986

[rastronomicals]

10:36 PM EST February 17, 2025:

The Comet Is Coming - "Technicolour" From the album Hyper‐Dimensional Expansion Beam (September 23, 2022)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

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  <500x500>

[maudeboggins]

Vivien Leigh Caesar and Cleopatra

[randommusicvid]

Technicolour -  Montaigne

[underachievers-please-try-harder]

Track of the day // Fcukers - Homies Don't Shake

From Baggy$$, out September 6th on Technicolour.

[wanderingmind867]

We bought some movies online recently, one of which was bought solely for the hopes that it would entertain my grandfather (we were panicking about the visit). But we also ordered a really old movie. So now we own The Great Race, with Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon. It's a long movie, but it's really good. I don't necessarily go out of my way to watch a lot of old movies, but the 50s and 60s still have a lot of good comedies. And honestly? I miss the way technicolour looks. That old, super vibrant style of colouration... it's beautiful. I don't know why the 50s and 60s had such vibrant colours, but we need that to come back. It's lovely seeing movies with brilliant blues, reds, greens and all the rest.

Also, Jack Lemmon plays over the top evil so well. Him and Peter Falk are the highlights of that movie, and I know they were the inspiration for a great many things. Jack Lemmon inspired the Hannah-Barbera character of Dick Dastardly, and I'm betting him and peter falk's dynamic were partially responsible for popularizing the story element wherein a maniacal villian has an incompetent sidekick who screws up constantly. And this movie just makes me wish Jack Lemmon had done Batman '66 or something. He would've been perfect for some kind of supervillian. Just perfect.

[partywithponies]

I know it didn’t even make it to the final, but Technicolour might be my favourite Australian Eurovision entry. It just sounds the most Australian to me somehow out of all their entries, and what's the point of Australia being in Eurovision if I don’t listen to their entry and say "ah yes. this is Australian-flavoured Eurovision"?

[closelyrelatedkeys]

Listen/purchase: Erika by Florian Kupfer

[starbound40]

Disco Inferno - Technicolour outtakes.

[photocyclelog]

North wind technicolour day…

Spot the bicycles…

Photo: 23rd April 2024

[misskohane]

"Come with me" / Quibón, Pocitos

fecha y cámara desconocida / unknown date & info

[rastronomicals]

9:29 PM EDT April 20, 2025:

The Comet Is Coming - "Technicolour" From the album Hyper‐Dimensional Expansion Beam (September 23, 2022)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

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  <500x500>

[endless-ineffabilities]

I made at least 2 people cry today because of this, and that fills me with joy.

I'm a nice person, I swear. Here's a hug for you. *hug*

See? Cuddly teddy bear.

technicolour

modern Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

a/n: this is me veering off yet again from my release schedule smh. this doesn't have the taglist cause it was just that spontaneous. warning — sad! so if this makes you cry, don't hold me accountable. happy (hehe) reading! <3

masterlist

A brief chronicle of lack, loss, and enduring love.

Aemond Targaryen had always known grey.

Grey skies. Grey halls. Grey hearts.

It had been his constant, the ever-present haze that cloaked his life. He learned to live in its monotony, to thrive in its bleakness. The son of a mother whose love felt conditional and a father whose gaze slipped over him as though he were nothing at all. He'd spent his childhood yearning, aching for something he couldn’t name, for someone who might see him—not as a pawn or a promise, but simply as himself.

By the time he met you, he had stopped searching. Life had become mechanical, a series of tasks to accomplish and milestones to conquer. It was easy to be cold when the world around him was cold, easy to remain untouchable when nothing touched him. And then you walked into his life.

It wasn't love at first sight. It wasn't some dramatic, thunderclap moment. It was a quiet shift, almost imperceptible, like the first threads of dawn light creeping into the sky. He didn't know it then, couldn't have known it, but that was the beginning of everything.

"How did you know?" people would ask, curious about the great love of his life.

He would smile, faintly wistful, and reply with three simple words.

"I just knew."

The sheer magnitude of the truth reduced to just that. For how could he put into words the way his life had slowly begun to bleed bright with colour when you entered it? How could he explain the transformation of a man who had resigned himself to the shadows, now basking in the warmth of sunlight?

He remembered the first time he truly saw you—not with his eyes, but with his heart. It wasn't at a gala or a grand meeting. No, it was something so ordinary it almost felt divine. You had been reading, your legs tucked beneath you on a weathered bench, your brow furrowed in concentration. The world bustled around you, but you were still, serene amidst the chaos. And when you looked up at him, your eyes alight with curiosity and mirth, it was as if something within him had clicked into place.

There was nothing remarkable about that day. The air smelled faintly of rain; a vendor nearby shouted about roasted chestnuts. But something in the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the way your lips quirked up when you caught him staring—it was as though the universe had paused, holding its breath just for you.

You spoke to him like he was a person, not a title or a symbol. You saw him—not the polished mask he wore, but the man beneath it. It was downright terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was strange and new.

He had gone home that night, pacing the length of his too-large apartment, replaying your conversation in his head. How you'd laughed at something he said—an offhand remark he didn't think would land. How your laugh had been this pure, unguarded thing, echoing in his chest like the first notes of a symphony.

He stayed awake watching the shadows shift on his ceiling, wondering if it was possible to miss someone he barely knew.

"Why do you love me?" you asked him once, your head resting on his chest as the two of you lay entwined.

He had laughed, a sound so rare it startled even him. "Why would I not?" he replied, but you pressed on, your fingers tracing patterns against his skin.

He hadn't known how to answer then, but he wished he had. He should have explained that all the grey turned into beautiful technicolour when you saw him for who he truly was. He should have thanked you for giving meaning to a life that had been a series of empty victories. He should have confessed that with you, everything—everything—felt sharper, brighter, alive.

Instead, he told you about the small things. How you sang off-key in the shower, unapologetically loud. How you left sticky notes with roughly drawn hearts on his desk when you knew he'd had a rough day. How you made him try new foods and giggled aloud when he turned beet red at something spicy.

You had kissed him then, murmuring something about him being a sentimental sap. But he saw the way your eyes shone, felt the way your fingers lingered against his cheek, and he knew you understood.

Slowly, then all at once, you became his everything.

And then you were gone.

Illness stole you from him like a thief in the night. It was cruel and unforgiving, and he could do nothing but watch as the light in your eyes dimmed, as your body grew frail and fragile in his arms. He raged against it, against the sheer injustice of it all, but it made no difference.

He remembered the day you told him. You had sat him down in the kitchen, your hands trembling as they cradled a steaming cup of tea. He could still see the way the sunlight had hit your face, catching the tear that slid down your cheek as you spoke.

"I'm so sorry. You should know that I never want to leave you, my love," you had whispered. And he shattered.

You had fought. God, how you had fought. Through the surgeries and the chemo, the endless cycle of hope and inevitable heartbreak. But even as your body betrayed you, you never lost the spark that made you you. Even when you were too weak to speak, you'd scribble little notes for him, teasing him about the books he left piled on the coffee table or reminding him to eat.

The day you slipped away, he thought the world would return to grey. That he would be swallowed by the emptiness again, consumed by the void of your absence. But he was wrong.

You had given him more than love.

You had given him life. And even in your absence, he could still feel you—everywhere. In the laughter of your children, Lucerys and Rhaenys, who carried your smile and your spirit. In the memories that lingered like phantoms, haunting and comforting all at once. In the way his world still held traces of you, as if it, too, refused to let you go.

He still told them your stories, weaving them into bedtime tales and rainy afternoons. How you had met. How you had danced barefoot in the kitchen. How you had loved them fiercely, even before they were born.

"Your mum would have loved your cooking," Aemond would say to Lucerys, even as he struggled to scrape the little boy's attempt at making eggs from the pan.

Or to Rhaenys, when she wrapped her small hand around his finger and asked why he looked so sad, he'd say, "Your mother laughed like you do. Just like that. Loud and big, like it couldn't be contained."

Aemond lived with your love, and he would continue to live with it. Because your love was not something that could be taken away, not by time, not by death. It was woven into the fabric of who he was, an indelible mark that nothing could erase.

But some days hurt more than others.

There were mornings when he woke up and reached for you before remembering you weren't there. Nights when he found himself staring at your side of the bed, the void in his chest sharp and unrelenting.

He missed you with an ache that would never fade, but he carried you with him, in every step, in every breath.

And when people asked him how he knew, how he had been so certain, he would smile that soft, wistful smile.

"I just knew," he would say.

Because even now, even in the bittersweet truth of your absence, he still did.

And he always will.

It was a Tuesday when Aemond found the first note.

He had been running late, fumbling through the chaos of the morning—Lucerys lost his shoes again, and Rhaenys refused to wear her coat. By the time the house was quiet and the children were at school, Aemond collapsed at his desk, dragging a hand through his silver hair. That's when he saw it: a small, yellow sticky note stuck to the corner of his laptop.

In a child's uneven scrawl, it read: "Don't forget to eat lunch, Dad!"

His breath caught.

The handwriting was different, messier, the letters tilting at odd angles, but the sentiment was the same. It was you, somehow, in Rhaenys' small, deliberate act of love.

He hadn't realized he was crying until a tear blurred the ink, smudging the little crooked heart she had drawn at the end.

Colour hadn't left his life—it only shifted, nestled into its beloved corners.

And for a man who had only known grey, it was more than enough.

[mishalogic]

Love the "technicolour" of Humanity!

NONE

Being greater or lesser than another!

Children are at peace with each other,

Adults need to learn, believe and discover! ... Misha