#Between Angels and Insects

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Papa Roach - Between Angels And Insects (2020)

[karontte]

Present yourself, press your clothes, comb your hair and clock in. You just can't win, just can't win. And the things you own, own you now.

Take my money. Take my possession. Take my obsession, I don't need that shit.

Fuck your money. Fuck your possession. Fuck your obsession, I don't need that shit.

[ey-melody]

the heart. the soul. the life. the passion.

[tunetowntourney]

[daily-broco]

Throwback to Rob singing at a Papa Roach show, a hormonal pinnacle for this blog.

[thesilenceofthelambs]

as a kid i would become enamored with wikipedia pages and print them out in their entirety to put up on the wall

[paparoach]

Need to find the perfect Papa Roach for Colt tbqh.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Greenwashing set Canada on fire

On September 22, I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy. On September 27, I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine.

As a teenager growing up in Ontario, I always envied the kids who spent their summers tree planting; they'd come back from the bush in September, insect-chewed and leathery, with new muscle, incredible stories, thousands of dollars, and a glow imparted by the knowledge that they'd made a new forest with their own blistered hands.

I was too unathletic to follow them into the bush, but I spent my summers doing my bit, ringing doorbells for Greenpeace to get my neighbours fired up about the Canadian pulp-and-paper industry, which wasn't merely clear-cutting our old-growth forests – it was also poisoning the Great Lakes system with PCBs, threatening us all.

At the time, I thought of tree-planting as a small victory – sure, our homegrown, rapacious, extractive industry was able to pollute with impunity, but at least the government had reined them in on forests, forcing them to pay my pals to spend their summers replacing the forests they'd fed into their mills.

I was wrong. Last summer's Canadian wildfires blanketed the whole east coast and midwest in choking smoke as millions of trees burned and millions of tons of CO2 were sent into the atmosphere. Those wildfires weren't just an effect of the climate emergency: they were made far worse by all those trees planted by my pals in the eighties and nineties.

Writing in the New York Times, novelist Claire Cameron describes her own teen years working in the bush, planting row after row of black spruces, precisely spaced at six-foot intervals:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/15/opinion/wildfires-treeplanting-timebomb.html

Cameron's summer job was funded by the logging industry, whose self-pegulated, self-assigned "penalty" for clearcutting diverse forests of spruce, pine and aspen was to pay teenagers to create a tree farm, at nine cents per sapling (minus camp costs).

Black spruces are made to burn, filled with flammable sap and equipped with resin-filled cones that rely on fire, only opening and dropping seeds when they're heated. They're so flammable that firefighters call them "gas on a stick."

Cameron and her friends planted under brutal conditions: working long hours in blowlamp heat and dripping wet bulb humidity, amidst clouds of stinging insects, fingers blistered and muscles aching. But when they hit rock bottom and were ready to quit, they'd encourage one another with a rallying cry: "Let's go make a forest!"

Planting neat rows of black spruces was great for the logging industry: the even spacing guaranteed that when the trees matured, they could be easily reaped, with ample space between each near-identical tree for massive shears to operate. But that same monocropped, evenly spaced "forest" was also optimized to burn.

It burned.

The climate emergency's frequent droughts turn black spruces into "something closer to a blowtorch." The "pines in lines" approach to reforesting was an act of sabotage, not remediation. Black spruces are thirsty, and they absorb the water that moss needs to thrive, producing "kindling in the place of fire retardant."

Cameron's column concludes with this heartbreaking line: "Now when I think of that summer, I don’t think that I was planting trees at all. I was planting thousands of blowtorches a day."

The logging industry committed a triple crime. First, they stole our old-growth forests. Next, they (literally) planted a time-bomb across Ontario's north. Finally, they stole the idealism of people who genuinely cared about the environment. They taught a generation that resistance is futile, that anything you do to make a better future is a scam, and you're a sucker for falling for it. They planted nihilism with every tree.

That scam never ended. Today, we're sold carbon offsets, a modern Papal indulgence. We are told that if we pay the finance sector, they can absolve us for our climate sins. Carbon offsets are a scam, a market for lemons. The "offset" you buy might be a generated by a fake charity like the Nature Conservancy, who use well-intentioned donations to buy up wildlife reserves that can't be logged, which are then converted into carbon credits by promising not to log them:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/12/fairy-use-tale/#greenwashing

The credit-card company that promises to plant trees every time you use your card? They combine false promises, deceptive advertising, and legal threats against critics to convince you that you're saving the planet by shopping:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/17/do-well-do-good-do-nothing/#greenwashing

The carbon offset world is full of scams. The carbon offset that made the thing you bought into a "net zero" product? It might be a forest that already burned:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/11/a-market-for-flaming-lemons/#money-for-nothing

The only reason we have carbon offsets is that market cultists have spent forty years convincing us that actual regulation is impossible. In the neoliberal learned helplessness mind-palace, there's no way to simply say, "You may not log old-growth forests." Rather, we have to say, "We will 'align your incentives' by making you replace those forests."

The Climate Ad Project's "Murder Offsets" video deftly punctures this bubble. In it, a detective points his finger at the man who committed the locked-room murder in the isolated mansion. The murderer cheerfully admits that he did it, but produces a "murder offset," which allowed him to pay someone else not to commit a murder, using market-based price-discovery mechanisms to put a dollar-figure on the true worth of a murder, which he duly paid, making his kill absolutely fine:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/14/for-sale-green-indulgences/#killer-analogy

What's the alternative to murder offsets/carbon credits? We could ask our expert regulators to decide which carbon intensive activities are necessary and which ones aren't, and ban the unnecessary ones. We could ask those regulators to devise remediation programs that actually work. After all, there are plenty of forests that have already been clearcut, plenty that have burned. It would be nice to know how we can plant new forests there that aren't "thousands of blowtorches."

If that sounds implausible to you, then you've gotten trapped in the neoliberal mind-palace.

The term "regulatory capture" was popularized by far-right Chicago School economists who were promoting "public choice theory." In their telling, regulatory capture is inevitable, because companies will spend whatever it takes to get the government to pass laws making what they do legal, and making competing with them into a crime:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/13/public-choice/#ajit-pai-still-terrible

This is true, as far as it goes. Capitalists hate capitalism, and if an "entrepreneur" can make it illegal to compete with him, he will. But while this is a reasonable starting-point, the place that Public Choice Theory weirdos get to next is bonkers. They say that since corporations will always seek to capture their regulators, we should abolish regulators.

They say that it's impossible for good regulations to exist, and therefore the only regulation that is even possible is to let businesses do whatever they want and wait for the invisible hand to sweep away the bad companies. Rather than creating hand-washing rules for restaurant kitchens, we should let restaurateurs decide whether it's economically rational to make us shit ourselves to death. The ones that choose poorly will get bad online reviews and people will "vote with their dollars" for the good restaurants.

And if the online review site decides to sell "reputation management" to restaurants that get bad reviews? Well, soon the public will learn that the review site can't be trusted and they'll take their business elsewhere. No regulation needed! Unleash the innovators! Set the job-creators free!

This is the Ur-nihilism from which all the other nihilism springs. It contends that the regulations we have – the ones that keep our buildings from falling down on our heads, that keep our groceries from poisoning us, that keep our cars from exploding on impact – are either illusory, or perhaps the forgotten art of a lost civilization. Making good regulations is like embalming Pharaohs, something the ancients practiced in mist-shrouded, unrecoverable antiquity – and that may not have happened at all.

Regulation is corruptible, but it need not be corrupt. Regulation, like science, is a process of neutrally adjudicated, adversarial peer-review. In a robust regulatory process, multiple parties respond to a fact-intensive question – "what alloys and other properties make a reinforced steel joist structurally sound?" – with a mix of robust evidence and self-serving bullshit and then proceed to sort the two by pantsing each other, pointing out one another's lies.

The regulator, an independent expert with no conflicts of interest, sorts through the claims and counterclaims and makes a rule, showing their workings and leaving the door open to revisiting the rule based on new evidence or challenges to the evidence presented.

But when an industry becomes concentrated, it becomes unregulatable. 100 small and medium-sized companies will squabble. They'll struggle to come up with a common lie. There will always be defectors in their midst. Their conduct will be legible to external experts, who will be able to spot the self-serving BS.

But let that industry dwindle to a handful of giant companies, let them shrink to a number that will fit around a boardroom table, and they will sit down at a table and agree on a cozy arrangement that fucks us all over to their benefit. They will become so inbred that the only people who understand how they work will be their own insiders, and so top regulators will be drawn from their own number and be hopelessly conflicted.

When the corporate sector takes over, regulatory capture is inevitable. But corporate takeover isn't inevitable. We can – and have, and will again – fight corporate power, with antitrust law, with unions, and with consumer rights groups. Knowing things is possible. It simply requires that we keep the entities that profit by our confusion poor and thus weak.

The thing is, corporations don't always lie about regulations. Take the fight over working encryption, which – once again – the UK government is trying to ban:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2023/feb/24/signal-app-warns-it-will-quit-uk-if-law-weakens-end-to-end-encryption

Advocates for criminalising working encryption insist that the claims that this is impossible are the same kind of self-serving nonsense as claims that banning clearcutting of old-growth forests is impossible:

https://twitter.com/JimBethell/status/1699339739042599276

They say that when technologists say, "We can't make an encryption system that keeps bad guys out but lets good guys in," that they are being lazy and unimaginative. "I have faith in you geeks," they said. "Go nerd harder! You'll figure it out."

Google and Apple and Meta say that selectively breakable encryption is impossible. But they also claim that a bunch of eminently possible things are impossible. Apple claims that it's impossible to have a secure device where you get to decide which software you want to use and where publishers aren't deprive of 30 cents on every dollar you spend. Google says it's impossible to search the web without being comprehensively, nonconsensually spied upon from asshole to appetite. Meta insists that it's impossible to have digital social relationship without having your friendships surveilled and commodified.

While they're not lying about encryption, they are lying about these other things, and sorting out the lies from the truth is the job of regulators, but that job is nearly impossible thanks to the fact that everyone who runs a large online service tells the same lies – and the regulators themselves are alumni of the industry's upper eschelons.

Logging companies know a lot about forests. When we ask, "What is the best way to remediate our forests," the companies may well have useful things to say. But those useful things will be mixed with actively harmful lies. The carefully cultivated incompetence of our regulators means that they can't tell the difference.

Conspiratorialism is characterized as a problem of what people believe, but the true roots of conspiracy belief isn't what we believe, it's how we decide what to believe. It's not beliefs, it's epistemology.

Because most of us aren't qualified to sort good reforesting programs from bad ones. And even if we are, we're probably not also well-versed enough in cryptography to sort credible claims about encryption from wishful thinking. And even if we're capable of making that determination, we're not experts in food hygiene or structural engineering.

Daily life in the 21st century means resolving a thousand life-or-death technical questions every day. Our regulators – corrupted by literally out-of-control corporations – are no longer reliable sources of ground truth on these questions. The resulting epistemological chaos is a cancer that gnaws away at our resolve to do anything about it. It is a festering pool where nihilism outbreaks are incubated.

The liberal response to conspiratorialism is mockery. In her new book Doppelganger, Naomi Klein tells of how right-wing surveillance fearmongering about QR-code "vaccine passports" was dismissed with a glib, "Wait until they hear about cellphones!"

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

But as Klein points out, it's not good that our cellphones invade our privacy in the way that right-wing conspiracists thought that vaccine passports might. The nihilism of liberalism – which insists that things can't be changed except through market "solutions" – leads us to despair.

By contrast, leftism – a muscular belief in democratic, publicly run planning and action – offers a tonic to nihilism. We don't have to let logging companies decide whether a forest can be cut, or what should be planted when it is. We can have nice things. The art of finding out what's true or prudent didn't die with the Reagan Revolution (or the discount Canadian version, the Mulroney Malaise). The truth is knowable. Doing stuff is possible. Things don't have to be on fire.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/16/murder-offsets/#pulped-and-papered

[justalittleficsideblog]

Can I touch your wings..?

Asking to touch / see their wings with Mammon, Lucifer, and Diavolo! i feel like these would be kinda sensitive but not rlly?

Lucifer

you had both been working in his office, you were simply trying to work through your homework without the brothers interfering (as they usually did). Your most recent subject involved the anatomy and biology of demons.

reading through the various lists of wings and their differences, you realized Lucifer's wings were a bit odd compared to the others in the textbook. most were bat or insect-like. Glancing up, you spoke.

"Hey... Lucifer, could I see your wings a minute?"

eyes immediately lifting to meet yours he grunts

"and why.. pray tell?"

fumbling over yourself you flip your textbook over to show him what you were studying. "Yours don't look anything like these! I just wanted to get a better view of them. Pleaseee, it's for my assignment."

rolling his eyes, he stood from his chair and dropped his jacket onto his desk, back facing you. in a blink, they appeared, black feathers swooshing around you.

they were enormous, gorgeous even, the pure slate colored feather tips gently drifting across the floor. you had assumed he had gorgeous angel wings, and that they looked similar to what was in front of you. which made you wonder...

reaching a hand out, your fingertips brushed the spot the wings met his back. before you knew it, he whirled in front of you, grabbing your wrist that was touching his wings.

you staggered back at his reaction, trying to pull free from his grip.

"Don't" he released you as you fell back into the chair, gaping up at him.

"luci... they're incredible! I- I didn't know they were so sensitive, my bad."

he left you to your studies, but you were completely breathless... wanting to touch them in full again.

meanwhile, as lucifer struck out of his office, his heart was erratic in his chest. the feeling of your hands gently stroking his feathers caused him to bristle, no one had ever dare to touch his wings before you...

Mammon

 Somehow you and Mammon had ended up binge watching nature documentaries as he made an offhand comment about not knowing much about humans and their animals.

So, you had picked one about flying animals and now, the narrator was explaining the different types of wings and how each fits the species and their needs perfectly.

Eyeing the male next to you, you thought about his own wings.

“hey… Mammon?” you murmured, causing his head to turn towards you as he raised an eyebrow in question. “I mean… can you show me your wings? I kinda want to compare them to what I’ve seen in the human realm.”

He shuffles awkwardly between himself, turning his head away, “the hell would’ja wanna do that for? You’ve seen them plenty.” You huffed at his reply and grabbed his shoulders, turning his face towards you. Blinking up at him, you gave your best puppy dog eyes.

He squirmed away from you, “uGH, fine! Just… turn around!”

Happily scooching back, you felt a slight breeze as his wings popped out. Glancing at them, you stared in awe as you came closer, looking over the white, bony structure connected by a thin, black membrane that seemed almost translucent the more you looked at it.

You reached out a hand, fingertips brushing along the sharp edges. You felt Mammon shiver beneath your touch, his face becoming flushed as your gentle touch. Were they sensitive? You thought, bringing your hand to wrap around where it connected into his back.

He jolted, wings disappearing as he spun around to face you, sweat starting to slick his brow as he brought up his wrist to cover his mouth. “Alright! That’s enough, you can’t just poke and prod wherever ya please!”

You laughed, short and soft as he became more and more uncomfortable beneath your gaze. Settling back down to the couch, you continued on with the show.

Unbeknownst to you, Mammon was on fire, the spot where his wings met his back was on fire from your touch. He hadn’t realized how sensitive to your touch he was… but he couldn’t say he was complaining.

Diavolo

You had been playing some games with the lord of devildom, entertaining him with games, books, and more about different folklore and fantasy that humans were interested in. He was particularly interested in one of the mini board characters, a dragon to be specific.

“Indeed, it does look rather defiant, does it not?” he asked you. Nodding in reply, you grabbed the mini figurine from him and turned it around to study it. you took particular notice of it’s wings, the hook looking incredibly similar to the ones on someone’s wings…

“Hey, Diavolo? Could I see your wings for a minute?”

Eyes widening, he tilted his head at your request, looking at how you were contemplating the tiny statue in front of you. Did you mean to compare his wings to this…. Tiny clay thing? He smiled and the next thing you knew, Diavolo was in his demon form.

He turned around and rolled his shoulders back, stretching his wingspan to it’s full length. Your mouth dropped open. Fanned out in front of you, were the largest wings you had ever seen. The muscles and membrane that stretched between the structures of all four wings were nothing but impressive. You looked at the changing colors between the membrane, noticing tiny glistening cells that made up the brunt of it.

“Holy shit…” you murmured. To be honest, his wings very well could have been the inspiration of dragons. They looked incredibly strong… you reached out a hand instinctively to touch the …horn? On the top of his wing.

Diavolo laughed at your expression of awe and desire to touch his wings. No one had ever been bold enough to try and touch them, even Barbatos knew better than to brush past them. But you… were so delicate and curious about them. He assumed you thought they were the stuff of legends.

“Are they to your liking?” he flapped his wings, causing a gust of wind to overtake you. Blinking up at him you responded, “They are… something out of a fairytale, Dia. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so…” you were at a loss for words, extending your hand towards the middle of his back, your fingertips brushing along his wingspan.

In a blink, he was towering over you, his wings cocooning you closer to him as you braced your hands against his chest.

“Oh! I- uh… I’m sorry,” you squirmed, backing into his wings. He laughed, transforming back to his casual clothes from before in a blink. He enjoyed teasing you, but you couldn’t ignore the glint in his eyes the way he turned towards you after you touched his skin.

“Well… shall we continue where we left off?” Diavolo gestured to the games laid out in front of him. You nodded, a bit spaced out by the whole ordeal.

“Dia, I have to admit, your wings are magnificent.” Glancing down back towards your book, you laughed as you plunged back onto the couch.

Unaware of his gaze, Diavolo felt an immense pride at the idea of you admiring him. He didn’t consider himself insecure by any means, but he felt his chest flutter at your words… and your touch, he felt his blood scream when you had touched them.

“Well you know… you can see my wings anytime you like.”

[viennaswcrld]

𝓕͟𝗔͟𝗠𝗘 𝗗𝗥. 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗗𝗨𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

𝓕͟𝗔͟𝗠𝗘 𝗗𝗥 ( also known as: 00s fame dr , jackass dr )

RISE TO FAME.

Vienna Bardot. A Cuban-British fashion model whose short stature and imperfect look redefined the industry in the 2000s.

At the age of seventeen, she was scouted by a Victoria’s Secret associate at a shopping centre in 2001. Only two months later, once she turned eighteen, she was flown out to Los Angeles and thrown into the epicentre of the modelling industry. “It was terrifying,” She recalled, “But there was this, sort of, adrenaline fuelled excitement for it all.”

After moving to L.A., Bardot crossed paths with Juliet Montgomery, a fellow Victoria’s Secret model who was the same age. The two became instantly inseparable. “We were attached at the hip,” Juliet says, “Couldn’t find one without the other.”

“I think it was the fact we were both so young. Finding someone who is experiencing the same thing as you is rare, but once you find it you grasp onto it,” Vienna adds, “I mean, being eighteen on your own in a big unknown city is scary. I don’t know what we would’ve done without grounding each other.”

The two would then regularly attend night clubs; although the drinking age in America is twenty-one, they were “not skipping the experience of being british eighteen-year-olds”. This is when they both met Johnny Knoxville (who, at the time, was known for his reality stunt show Jackass) along with Steve-O, who also took part in the show. After a lot of talking, and a few drinks, Bardot agreed to do a stunt on the show.

The stunt in question was called “The Beekini”. The basic concept consisted of Vienna’s crotch and breasts being covered in bees, resulting in a bikini made of the insects. Knoxville had done something similar to himself of the same name in the first season of the show. He laughs, “I didn’t expect her to actually do it, I was just joking around! But I wasn’t complaining. Footage is footage.”

Bardot and Knoxville then formed a close bond, causing a friendship between her, Juliet, and the rest of the Jackass crew. So, it wasn’t a surprise when the two were invited to take part in Jackass: The Movie, an extended, more explicit version of the popular MTV show.

When we asked about special treatment due to their gender, Jeff Tremaine, director of the Jackass show and movie franchise, said this: “Absolutely not. If they were gonna be apart of Jackass, they got treated like any of the others. […] Although, we had to sign an agreement in order to not damage their hair or faces, so they lucked out on that.”

Due to the amount of stunts when filming, Bardot was bound to be covered in bruises, cuts, and all sorts of injuries, “At the beginning, they tried to cover them. Every show and shoot I was covered in foundation from head to toe.”

Show coordinators then eventually decided to stop covering the bruises, as it took hours to finish, and began having conversations on what to do with Vienna. Will they have to let her go? Until Cathy Riva, the 2002 Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show segment producer, said, “Who says we have to cover them at all?”

Vienna Bardot became a symbol for the “heroin chic” aesthetic that followed the grunge style. She was accused of promoting violence and abuse, but despite the uproar, Bardot became one of the most sought-after and highest-paid models in the world. In the ensuing decades she appeared in ad campaigns for Dior, Vivienne Westwood, Chanel, Versace, and Dolce and Gabbana, among others. With her iconic style, she also became a muse to a number of designers. Although many models retire by their mid-20s, Bardot remained busy into the 21st century, by which time she had appeared on more than 300 magazine covers. She had also appeared in many iconic movies, such as How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Mean Girls, and The Other Woman. In 2016, she then appeared in the show Fleabag as the main character. The show’s two seasons were a massive success, causing Bardot to also become an icon for the newer generation as well.

PERSONAL LIFE.

After many years of speculation, Knoxville and Bardot made it official to the public in the ending credits of Jackass Number Two, a special clip “for fans who waited until the end”.

Unknown to many, in 2007, the two impulsively got married in Las Vegas under the influence of alcohol and “other substances” and did not realise until the day after when finding polaroid’s of them with Elvis Presley at the alter.

In 2012, the two then got engaged in a secluded field in the countryside of Johnny’s hometown Knoxville, Tennessee during a private picnic, before getting married “for real” in Lake Como, Italy in June 2013 in front of their family and friends.

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Papa Roach - Between Angels And Insects

[beware-of-pity]

You believe me like a god (I destroy you like I am) IV

Masterlist

Previous Chapter - Next

Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

TW: Self-hatred/Implied Self Harm. Complicated family relations. The reader is a Targtower.

Cross-posted on Ao3

Chapter IV: "Angel" he calls me (Does he know that I'm falling?)

Your room had become a graveyard of memories, most of its belongings were those passed down to you from your late family members, and its latest additions were your mother’s, which you kept in a coffer, locked and sealed in the corner of the small vastness of your room.

The air was often stuffy as a result, and between Helaena's insect viewing screens and your mother’s piled embroidery works, you took every opportunity you were offered to be far away from it.

Jaehaera, on the other hand, viewed it almost as a playground, often roaming it as a labyrinth of a past she could not remember, a past that wasn’t hers. You attempted to show her Helaena’s needlework or her insects collection, anything that could keep the memory of her mother alive, but your little girl did not seem that interested. You had put the effort off for the while, waiting at least until she was grown enough to remember what you were showing and telling her.

Instead, it seemed that she had found a toy and companion in a doll you and Helaena used to play with at her age, shaped to the liking of your mother, with dark, auburn hair and brown eyes. You had let her have it and asked Rhaenyra for some new fabrics, for you to sew some new clothes for the doll, as its last were old and ragged.

Today, you were allowed out during your change of guard.

To leave the ‘vault’, as people would call it, the long keep with the slate roof behind the royal sept your family was confined in, was like a breath of fresh air, for however fresh the change could be, seeing the foul smell the city often carried with itself and it’s reputation. Thankfully, the gardens were exempted from such nullity and nuisance, the smell of freshly planted flowers making up for its environment.

Such a pity Jaehaera had to attend her lessons on such a beautiful sunny day. You were sure she would have liked the feel of the sun on her skin after so long inside, but you most of all understood how important her lessons were for her, actively encouraging her to go to them even on those days she would not wish to, taking her to the chamber where they would be held, hand in hand.

Were you both to be confined to the Keep for the rest of your lives with no hopes of seeing any change, then her wit would one day become her saving grace, and you would make sure she cultivated her talents in quantity.

Just as you had been made to do at her age, for the rest of your life by your mother.

From where you walked, you got a clear view of the inner courtyard, filled and bustling with activity. From servants and stable boys hanging around to high and low nobles promenading around, as they always did, as if they had nothing better to do.

You knew very well that that was not just what they were doing. The art of lingering around, present but never noticed, becoming part of the backdrop in people’s lives was something that, while you could not go unnoticed of doing, was something you had learned a thing or two about since the beginning of your confinement as Rhaenyra’s prisoner.

Steely but silent, never to make a sound too loud, that’s how you moved around the halls of the Keep, watching with your ever-curious eye. If there was one thing you were grateful to your mother for, it was for teaching you never to take people or anything by their surface level. A man, as common as they come, could be the Lord of the Seven Hells in disguise, and by putting up a good bravado, he could fool even the wisest, the most pious. The angel of death disguises itself as an angel of light. The gods shine bright their light among the most faithful to protect others from him, but even the gods’ gaze cannot reach where their light cannot overpower the dark. It was in your best interest to understand people and their motives, now more than ever when your survival depended on it.

You watched as the familiar figure of Jacaerys came from the double doors leading to the courtyard. He donned his riding gear, very clearly prepared to head to the dragonpit to visit Vermax and take him for a ride. You were about to call out for him, greeting him and calling out for a good morrow, having only seen him now since yesterday, but stopped when you realised he was not alone.

Baela and Rhaena followed soon after, walking out the doors donned in the same riding gears as him, a clear sign that they were going with him to ride their dragons too.

The laughs of the trio reached your ears as you watched them smile and chatter with one another, so content and carefree. So unlike you and your predicament. You wished to be with them, in your own gear, going to the dragonpit to ride Silverwing, who you missed dearly. But it was a common truth that you could not. A truth you could only turn into reality in your dreams, where you dreamt of sitting upon the leather saddle on her back, soaring to the skies as you once used to.

You clenched your hand involuntarily, the pain so evident as you felt the tips of your nails dig into your palm, so deep that had you not stopped yourself, you were sure to draw blood.

A feeling so dark and viscous twisted at your heart.

How was this fair? Why should you have to pay the price for the sins of others? You had been pardoned for your family’s crimes, why, then, were you not allowed to return to a life of normalcy? Why, after two years since the war’s end, were you still treated as a traitor would?

Jaehaera, too, a girl so young and so bright, of just ten years of age, isolated by the children of her age, was allowed only to familiarise herself with Rhaenyra’s youngest sons.

The reasons as to why pulled at your viscera. If they were doing this for reasons that you were not allowed to know, if they were hiding them from you, you knew it was because they, too, understood that you would not stand for them.

Everyone had witnessed in what was now being called the ‘Dance of the Dragons’ how destructive and deep the rage and anger of the Targaryens could be. You seemed meek, weakened as the years passed, but no one forgot who you were, as you never showed yourself to be passive to slights and insults thrown your way. You had to stand for yourself, now more than ever, when you had no one to do so for you, and with a rage running so deep? Some would say the perfect recipe for disaster.

A Targaryen whose blood of the dragons ran as deep as that of those that came before you and those that will come after, as hot and boiling as that of dragons made flesh.

One day you will wake from the ashes of your sleep and remember who you were. Today, was just not that day.

You had been promised that you and Jaehaera would be treated well, but you knew very well that promises meant nothing. They could be easily spoken, so easily broken, just as oaths had been during the war. or how much longer this would last, you could not know.

You were comfortable now but in the future? Who would assure you a life worthy of being called as such? Jacaerys? Jacaerys would be too busy being King to assure you continued to have the life he was making sure you had now, and if rumours of him being betrothed to Baela were to become true, who is to say his gaze would not be too hastily driven to his new wife rather than to his duties or his responsibilities.

Because that’s what you were, a responsibility, now belonging to his mother, your sister, but one day to become his.

Watching them walk up to the wheelhouse, with no sense of worry or care, made you only want to be able to have what they had more than anything.

You turned to walk in the opposite direction, turning your gaze from that which you had begun to crave once more, something you knew you would not be given, could not be given, as they always reminded you.

Unbeknown to your thoughts, your feet had led you towards the forest of the godswood. You had not noticed until the darkness of the shade washed over you, glimpses of light shining down at you from the cracks of the moving branches.

The rustling of the leaves by the wind calmed your thoughts, your hunger for what you craved, the anger for what you were denied. The chirping of distant birds, the murmur of crickets, and the washing of the waves of the Blackwater Bay created the perfect backdrop for your walk, but the fresh chill made for a cold reminder of the spring that had yet to come as you clinched to your frame your shawl, moving it over your shoulder from where it rested hanging on your elbows. The thick walls shut out the clamour of the castle, creating the perfect quiet for your unrested mind, despite your occasional shivers.

You allowed the silence to surround you, only broken by your and your guard’s steps, who, unlike your wishes, moved unsynchronised. Ser Rickard’s were heavier, not just made so by his weight and height but also by the heavy armoury he concealed his body with.

He who had first been in your mother’s services when Ser Criston had gone to march against Rhaenyra, who, surprisingly, had been allowed for him to retain his position as a member of the Kingsguard, now the Queensguard.

Though he was appointed as your sworn protector to get him out of her gaze, she was not too fond of having her late brother’s treacherous servitude anywhere near her.

Ser Rickard was always kind to you, taking care of you as a father would, perhaps better than yours had when he was still alive. Despite the strict orders he had been given about never letting his eyes off you on these particular and secluded walks, he allowed you the freedom you were deprived in the thick walls of the Red Keep, which were known to have ears and mouths to carry the whispers of misbehaviour far and wide.

As you sat upon a bench, he took some steps back, watching over you from the distance as you gazed over the bay set before you. The sea leading to the Gullet was filled with merchant ships from around the continent, Volantis, Lys, and Braavos, going in and out, carrying with them the well-being of the Capital and that of its people.

The godswood was empty, as it would be along the walls of the city of Southron gods. Hardly anyone came here to pray. Prayer would only fill the ears of the trees when a Stark or a northerner was nearby, otherwise, the tree would have to bear witness to secret escapades from young couples, whispered plots or your solitary walks. You suppose even the gods would grow bored of such entertainment. You were not much to look at in this state, after all. At least for them, for it seemed you had indeed caught the eye of someone.

The sound of leaves being crunched under heavy boots that did not belong to Ser Rickard made the both of you twist in alert, awaiting the reveal of the intruder of your quiet.

The man had not proved himself to be a stranger by any means; you knew him quite well, the familiarity between you two not a hidden knowledge to one another.

“Lord Reynford”  Reynford of House Redwyne, Lord of the Arbour, once ally of your brother and a kin of yours, though through which unmanned and distant cousin you had never met, you could not tell. You had a vague idea of why he was here as you acknowledged his presence.

“Forgive me, your grace, I did not mean to interrupt the quiet” his voice was gruff and slightly monotone, not giving away anything. He dressed richly, even for his age. His face clearly showed his age, a man of over two and fifty years of age, who carried himself well despite his tenure.

“It’s hardly quiet, wouldn’t you say?” You asked, the sound of the city below you two proving your point.

“So it would seem, though I meant you quiet. The city can hardly be disturbed when in itself is a cause for disturbance,” he said, walking closer.

With the tail of your eye, you spied Ser Rickard stepping closer, and you held up a hand, signalling for him not to.

He stopped in his tracks, unsure whether or not to listen to your silent command, which went against what he was instructed. Though he cared for you and gave you much relative freedom, he was always at the ready to prove his loyalty to the monarch he was now sworn to serve. You did not blame him for not wanting to so easily disobey the orders he had been given or to prove himself disloyal by the newly bound oath he had sworn. It was beyond his bounds to allow this conversation to continue, of the possible treachery that was sure to be whispered.

Still, now, you found yourself wanting to be selfish, wanting this thing to be given to you. Fortunately for you, it seemed that Ser Rickard understood you too well. He returned slowly to his previous posting, giving you and Lord Reynford space and privacy for your conversation. He would grant you this, only because of how wanting you seemed of it.

“Such a pity, that such beautiful day is to be disturbed by the cold of the wind” Lord Reynford now stood in front of you, clutching his hand behind his back. He wore a heavy, blue cloak with a red fur collar fastened with a pin in the shape of a burgundy grape cluster. A true Redwyne, he presented himself as such, showing others how proud he was of his heritage.

“How true you speak, but I suppose beautiful things are not often left untouched by the harshness of the world. Wouldn’t you say?” He seemed to ponder your words, though you could see he wasn’t really giving them much thought, his mind somewhere else altogether, perhaps to the reason why he was here.

“How right you are, you yourself are a great example of such saying,” he said, his voice low “I do remember how charming you looked in green, princess. How dreadful these black gowns make you look” he extended a hand to pull a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“You flatter me,” you said, closing your eyes at the contact of his finger against your temple, wanting nothing more than to pull away, but not wanting to be impolite, something you were taught to be unacceptable against high and honourable lords “but those times are gone, my lord. You best make sure to forget of them”

“Nonsense, i could never forget such pretty sight” he disagreed “How I and many others wish to see it again, you cannot imagine, Princess” You watched as he shuffled closer “More than anything, that and much more. We all wish for your happiness and your desires to be fulfilled”

“And what would you know of my desires, my lord?” You asked, tilting your head in a slight show of defiance, but not against him, but rather his assumption.

“Nothing, unless you wish to share them with me” How clever of him, he had plotted it all it seemed, not leaving a single possibility in its wake.

“And tell me, Lord Reynford. Are you of the same cloth that Lord Peake was cut from?”

Unwin Peake, a man known for being willing to die to see his ambitions succeed. He wasn’t exactly subtle in his straying of hands, his overstepping, his overaching. The way he pushed his daughter, of just one and ten years of age, into befriending the eight and ten-man that was Jacaerys concealed anything but what he was truly after. Like any other man, Peake yearned for the throne, though he wasn’t exactly quiet about his wants or needs, which was why his plans had not unfolded in the way he wanted.

He had fought for your brother through the very end, and as such, he had approached you many times, trying to inspire rebellion in you, which you quickly and always turned him down for, at times rather harshly for his insistence. But it wasn’t your fault that he didn’t understand that you had no interest in opening old wounds unless necessary. Unless it be to protect yourself and Jaehaera.

“I would sooner allow you to take my life than be condemned to the same ring of the seven hells in which that man belongs in” he replied gruffly, almost offended by the comparison. But he was a smart man who understood the question you had just asked him. The meaning of your words was plain to see. Was he here to try and use you for your plans, or was he an ally, here to reassure you of his loyalty and, most of all, his eagerness to serve you?

“You must believe me, your grace. I wish for nothing more than to serve you in my capacities” The reassurance was much needed, and though you believe his words to be sincere, you were not too quick to fall for them. Any man could speak with enough sincerity to get what he wanted, and though a servant and faithful subject, he remained a man, and men are but deceiving creatures. He would have to prove himself first.

“Your words are as sweet as the wine that flows at your feasts,” you said, voice thick “almost….intoxicating, if said to the wrong person we can only imagine the damage they could cause”

“Then we must make sure they do not reach unwanted ears, no?” His eyes burned with hidden conviction, one only for you to see. Bearing witness only, were the trees. They were there, listening, silent, watching you two. The greenery of their leaves, the greenery of the grass, the shade reflecting such colour. Green, a colour so bright and so deep, the colour of living things, of life, of earthly change and of rot. So many rotten things were green, your family having been one of them.

“You said that my desires are ones you share” you tested him, wanting his reaction. He perked at your words, clearly listening intently to your coming request.

Remember this feeling, you told yourself, this is the moment you stop being the lamb to the slaughter.

You were blind. No, you had blinded yourself of the truth which had now come to the surface.

You were rotten, just like them, just as your family had been, just as much as the words you were speaking. How sweetly the fox speaks when it is being cornered by the hound.

“I want to be free”

Taglist: @esposadomd

If anyone wants to be added, please comment so, and you'll be tagged in the next chapter

[alastor-simp]

Sensitive Soul😔 - Alastor x Reader

Requested by @ju1yyyzzz

The Hazbin gang were all lounging around the lobby, minding their own business. Charlie was reading a story book, definitely romance. Vaggie had her spear in her hand, practicing her moves. Sir Pentious was observing her. Apparently Vaggie wanted to teach him some physical combat, since he relied too much on his gadgets and egg minions. He was sloppy, but he had a lot of confidence, which Vaggie respected. Angel dust was chatting away at the bar with Husk. Their relationship had improved a lot, leaving you feeling very happy to the point you cried. Zooming sounds were happening all across the room. It was Niffty, chasing after the insects with a knitting needle. The look in her eye was crazy and glad she was aiming it towards the bugs, and not you. Alastor was relaxing against a chair, legs crossed while sipping from a coffee mug. The hotel radio was playing a broadcast from the human world. The fact that it could pick up stations from the living world was insane. Must have been Alastor's doing since he always looking for more entertainment.

The phone in your hand was your source of entertainment for the time being, as you kept flipping through Sinstagram. Static emanated from the radio, beginning to play a broadcast in regards to some sort of pandemic happening on earth. The grin radiating on Alastor's face was nerve wracking, as he continued to listen in on it. "HAHA! How utterly entertaning! Makes me remember the good old days during the Great Depression! So many orphans!" It felt like you had been punched in the stomach. 'How could he find that entertaining'. Your thoughts were becoming depressing, and tears began to appear in your eyes. Charlie took a break from her book, and looked up, noticing your sad expression. "Y/N, Why are you crying?" Realization hit you as you touched your cheek and felt wetness. The room got quiet, everyone gazing at you with concerned looks including Alastor. "I-I'm I-. I need to be excused." Jumping from where you were sitting, you rushed out of the room, leaving everyone confused. Angel was the first to speak up: "What the f✪✪✪ was that about?"

Charlie felt the need to comfort you, but she concluded that your probably needed a minute to calm down. She looked around the room, observing everyone. "Did any of you say anything to them?" Everyone shrugged their shoulders, stumped. Niffty zoomed next to Charlie, wanting to tell her something. "She started to cry when Alastor was laughing about something on the radio." Eyes all turned to Al. Alastor still had a smile on his face, but mentally he was riddled with confusion. "I was only reminiscing about the past! My words did not bare any insults towards them!" A spear was drawn at his face, causing him to arch an eyebrow. Ohh how scary he thought. Vaggie was fuming, nearly about to strike Alastor. "Whatever you said apparently made them upset! Now go and check on them, bastardo!" The air grew ominous, as Alastor powers began to expand, clouding the room with black mist. The smile on his face began to grow monstrous, as his eyes turned into radio dials. "Now Vaggie! There is no need for threats! But I advise that you lower your w̶͈̒͜è̶̫̤͖̃̀̔̋́a̴̝̮̾̽̋̌̈́̎̍p̵̳̟̩͈̬̹͓̔̀͌ó̸̟̃ṇ̵̹̻̽̉ ̶̩̞͓̃̓͌̈́ȍ̷̬ŕ̸��̡̣͈̹͜ ̵̡͈̰͎́̚ḛ̴̞̯̭̥͊̅̇̃̎̆l̵̖̔͑͆̿s̸̙̐̌̐̆̓͠è̵̛̻͑̓̊͠!" Charlie jumped between the both of them, wanting to appease the situation. "Vaggie Stop!" Charlie words reached her girlfriend, causing the spear to be lowered, as she crossed her arms. Charlie then looked at Alastor, who had managed to calm down slightly, yet the air was still tense. "Alastor. Could you please check on Y/N?" A shook of his head, brought him back to normal, as he stood up from the couch. "All right!" The staff in his hand at appeared, giving it a twirl before he stood up from the couch, walking away with his hands behind his back.

"Now where could the little darling have gone?" Alastor announced to himself, as he ventured down the hallways. His first place to look would be your room. Giving a rhythmic tap on the door, he waited for you to open the door. His ears twitched, trying to pinpoint any sounds from the other side, but heard none. "Hmm. Not here." Alastor continued to look for you. The last place to look was the hotel garden. It needed a lot of weeding and pruning when he first arrived at the Hotel. Niffty and you were able to fix it right up, planting certain hellflowers and fruits and vegetables. Sounds of sniffling reached Alastor's ears, "Ah so you were here!" he thought. He found on curled on the ground, laying on the concrete ground, admiring the flowers. His eyes noticed the tear streaks that were still prominent on your cheeks. Turning your head around, you saw Alastor standing next to you, before looking away. "Why the long face my dear?" Alastor chortled to himself, while you remained silent. Your lack of silence bothered Al. He still couldn't piece together why you were crying in the lobby? He snapped his fingers, causing a cushion to appear on the ground. He didn't want to dirty his pants. Plopping down, he continued to look at you. His smile stayed the same, but his eyes were looking at you with slight concern.

"My dear, what has you so upset? Was it something I did in the lobby that bothered you?" He patiently waited for your answer. Wiping your tears with your sleeve, you turned your head towards him. "You didn't do anything Al. It was the topic you brought up that got to me!" Cocking his head, he pondered what you said. A lightbulb flashed in his head. "Ahh yes! The great depression!" His smile became giddy. His entertainment for misery was appearing again. "Yes. I know to you it was highly entertaining, but to others it wasn't. It just made be think about all the hard-times during that time, and the orphans and what-not. I know its stupid to cry over something like that, but certain things or topics I'm very sensitive too. Often times it results in my breaking down in tears like you just saw." Alastor continued to stare at you, while you talked. He was relieved he didn't cause something directly to upset you, but it did stun him a a bit at your reasoning. His years being a radio host/serial killer harden him, to the point certain depressing topics became utter joy for him. It gave him a bit of realization that subjects like this were very bothersome to others, including you. "I apologized if I worried you and the others. Just didn't want to cry in front of all of you over something stupid. Wish I wasn't such a cry-baby." Casting your eyes down, you gazed at ground.

A fluffy material touched your cheek, causing you to jump. Looking at Al, he was cleaning your face with a handkerchief. His signature smile, had dropped. It wasn't a frown, but he was a full on smile either. More of a slight grin. "Y/N, there is nothing wrong with crying over stuff like this. My time in Hell has made me immune to depressing topics. This doesn't make you a cry-baby, it just means that you have a pure soul. You care about the well being of others greatly, to the point of tears. It is quite alright my dear, and I would like to give a proper apology to you." His words were insanely sweet. More tears began to pour out your eyes, shocking Alastor even more.

"My dear?! What did I say? Why are the tears still coming from your eyes?" His actions were frantic, as he continued to wipe the tears from your eyes. The tears still flowed, but a smile was on your face. "Hehe, I'm sorry. Your words were very sweet and just made me very happy that I wanted to cry." Alastor gave a chuckle as well, shaking his head. "My my what a strange demon you were. Still, you were very adorable." He thought to himself. Soon the handkerchief had removed all of the tears that were flowing down. The signature grin he wore returned, as he got up from his position, snapping the cushion away. His hand extended out to you, allowing you to grab it. Being pulled up, you got up off the ground, and stood in front of Alastor. His other hand was placed on your cheek, giving it a stroke before returning back to him. "Shall we head back my dear? The others must be getting worried!" He smiled down at you, to which you responded back with a nod, as the both of you walked together out of the garden to rejoin the others.

~END~

*Tagging*

@pepperycookie , @yourdoorisunlocked, @ghostdoodlen , @aceofcards0-0 , @jyoongim , @saturnhas82moons , @unholycheesesnack, @luujjvi, @forbidden-sunlight , @pinkcrystal44 , @veethewriter , @rains-sleeping , @danveration , @demoarah , @cookiekyo , @iiotic , @delectableworm , @91062854-ka , @alastorsgoldie

[daily-broco]

The highlight of this blog was almost prevented by an Australian security guard.

[desultory-novice]

Do you think Galacta Knight's horns are real or part of his mask?

...Oh wow. This ask floored me, anon, because personally I've always believed they were a part of his mask and not real horns and yet, I have almost never found anyone who agreed, let alone would even entertain the possibility they were just decorative...!

It just always made the most sense to me...?

Like, that kind of thing is VERY standard for medieval helmets - animal, insect, and demonic motifs to be an intimidating figure on the battlefield, that is. Both realistic and exaggerated depictions.

(Also, the game IS developed in Japan by a Japanese studio and it would not be at all weird for them to draw inspiration from samurai helmets for his mask design.)

We KNOW Meta Knight, at least, is shy to show his true face, so why would another puff not do the same thing and try to look fiercer than his face suggests? Especially if his only inborn distinctive trait is having angel wings, a symbol of peace and benevolence?

(I also believe, aesthetically, that having the only physical difference between Galacta Knight and Meta Knight outside of their opposing colors being MK's devil wings and GK's angel wings - as opposed to devil wings v angel wings AND horns - makes them MUCH better parallels to each other? Adding real horns in just muddies it.)

Also, imo, in every render and model of him, the "horns" are too closely modeled into the helmet to have room to feasibly grow out from his head! Just saying, but that would be a ridiculously uncomfortable design to wear in RL, constantly rubbing and chaffing against his horns, preventing it from moving and "breathing" with his face while not providing any form of protection for them either!!

They're also made of the same golden color AND texture as the ornamentation of his shield. I know I'm going against fandom popular opinion here, but that also tells me they are ORNAMENTAL.

While ornamental horns just seem the most logical to me for species, character, historical, and design reasons, it's pretty obvious that aesthetically and interest-wise, non-ornamental horns have a complete stranglehold have won out in the fandom.

I have seen innumerable asks questioning + folks speculating via art and other mediums, "What horns do you think Kirby will develop when he grows up?" Most people go to great efforts to research, dream up, or uncover the appropriate "head attachments" for their puffs when designing Kirby OCs to "fit" their interpretation of Galacta + what a mature member of Kirby's species simply MUST look like.

Quite simply, Galacta having horns clearly stirs folks imaginations(1) more than a dark pink puff with angel wings who wants to represent themselves as a fierce demon on the battlefield.

...Even though Galacta Knight making a conscious choice to contrast their angelic visage with demon horns whenever they are in battle says a lot of fascinating things and makes them a more interesting and nuanced character to investigate, in my opinion.

--

(1) While I think it's more fascinating if he doesn't have them, I would be remiss to ignore the issue that, in a lineup, it provides Galacta Knight some much needed visual diversity from the others. It makes his gijinka and unmasked form instantly more recognizable than they would be otherwise.

Real horns have more appeal for the same reason many folks (and I am guilty of this) give Dark Meta Knight a scar on his eye under his mask, even though realistically, him taking that kind of injury is practically impossible. (That's what the mask is there FOR lol!)