#atomic peasant

[metamatar]

To an extent, certainly, Proudhon was just articulating the view of woman’s subordination that was prevalent in mid-nineteenth century. If that were all, he would not be interesting. The fact is that this “libertarian” went far beyond even the most conservative versions than current on the place of women.

[...] In method he differed in no way from any of the contemporaneous deep thinkers [...] Men = strength; hence force, ability, and all associated virtues. Women = beauty and grace at the best, and nothing else but baby machines and unpaid servitors. He did not even give a nod to a conception that was already commonplace among socialists: that women were driven to prostitution not by their “female” natures but by social conditions.

Proudhon himself understood that his anti-feminist views were more reactionary than even the upholders of the status quo – reactionary in the literal sense of wishing to return to a more patriarchal past. Public opinion and government had to be convinced, he proclaimed, “that the father of the family should be re-established [sic] in his domestic jurisdiction, honors and authority.” A propaganda campaign was needed against the current degenerate state of affairs, “against the licentiousness of young people and feminine rebelliousness.” Women “have nothing to gain by education.” [...]

“Back to patriarchy!” was the banner he raised himself. “It is to a new patriarchate that I would like to invite all men,” he wrote. [...] we get one clue to the connection between his antifeminism and his anarchist standpoint, that is, his blind resentment against the organization of modern society and a longing to return to the small-unit society of the past, where a patriarch could rule. [...] He quite consciously linked the peasant’s concern for preserving seed with the “virile” man’s need to retain his seed in order to conserve strength and intellect. Women, eunuchs and children were inferior because they lacked this conservation of the “seed.”

[…] a gemlike formulation: “A woman does not at all hate being used with violence, indeed even being violated.” Whether “by reason or force,” a woman has to be bent and broken to the master’s will. “If the woman resists you to your face, it is necessary to beat her down at any cost.”

Even to the power of life and death: violence in dominating the woman is not to be limited. Proudhon demanded that society return to the Patriarchal Law. [...] In Proudhon’s case, the atomic individual was the individual family, which was the only natural unit of the species. Proudhon’s need for patriarchalism was not simply a personal aberration. The family was the only meaningful unit of society, and the family was necessarily an autocracy: this was the crux of Proudhon’s view of the world.

Women and Class, Hal Draper

[ritterum]

It’s very easy to forget how utterly magical and science-fictional the world we live in tends to be. I’m not even talking about Wi-Fi and kewl haxx (like you see in the movies) - I’m talking very basic things like: motors! x-rays! the humble microchip!

Consider: we’ve been converting water energy to mechanical energy since forever. If you went back in time to meet the (by now) proverbial medieval peasant, you could show them a hydroelectric turbine and they’d likely have an easy time following along. It’s just like a water wheel! Water flows over fancy blades - the blades attach to a wheel that turns an axle - that axle powers... wait, what do you mean you don’t attach it to gear-works? What do you mean you... put magnets around the axle and the rotating (invisible!) magnetic field generates lightning in the metal coil you spun around it?

(Necessary disclaimer: I am not an engineer and I am aware that this reduction may be slightly wrong! That’s not the point.)

Seriously: setting aside the fact that we have a robust field of animalculology and have put people on the moon (which are two of the Awesome Feats people tend to point to), think about the little things that make your computers and cellphones run: the modestly-named integrated circuit (IC). Those two words come across your screen, and to a layman, it sounds like “hmm, those dozen switch-and-wire loops are sure merging into each other, what a neat trick!” This cannot be further from the truth.

Integrated circuits are made up of billions of switches and wires.

Integrated circuits have become so tightly packed that the atoms which make up the transistors can be counted on one hand. The transistors themselves are so small that you can only simulate the probability that they are printed as intended, and yet so precisely made that you can all but ensure the gaps between them are a single atom wide. And this isn’t a one-off thing - we encounter thousands of ICs of varying degrees of complexity every day as we go about our humdrum lives.

In the words of our Medieval Peasant: we have tamed lightning, and writ it in sigils of metal; and then we crafted scholars of metal to do what we could not, and scribed a thousand thousand sigils in the space of a fingernail. And we do this so we can look at Goodwife Jonesy bare her ankles (live!) on SolelyFans.

God, we’re good.

[gabessquishytum]

I’m here for dream doesn’t know anything about sex and is a bit terrified. He’s like 3 seconds from crying at all times, you think he’s gonna emotionally survive someone taking his shirt off? No way. They APPROACH a horizontal surface and he starts shaking. He’s fought Lucifer but someone (hob) touching his body? No way. He doesn’t think he deserves any of it. Hand holding makes him go insane after so long in a glass bubble. And then someone’s like “I’m really good at sex, want to do sex?” And he breaks down crying cause that’s SO MUCH.

Anyway

Hob has a virginity kink cause he’s a 1300’s peasant. This is an absolute win for him.

-🦐

*chewing 🦐 anon in my mouth very gently* yeah. YEAH

I feel like the dichotomy of Dream is that he is CRYING OUT for a slutty, slutty physical relationship... but if one single atom of another being's physical body touches him, he WILL set himself on fire. And even if he has done sex before he got captured, its all different now.

And Hob is just a guy. It shouldn't work. But it does. Because Hob has cried his way through decades of trauma and hypersexuality and sex he doesn't even remember because of one substance or another. And he is not going to let his friend go from one form of trauma (fish bowl) to another (sex that he doesn't really want).

This means: finding out what kind of sex Dream does want. He doesn't have to get naked. He doesn't have to touch anything that's cold or feels like glass. He can say no. He can say no without having to actually say no. They can stop when they're both still hard. It doesn't matter if he never gets hard in the first place.

Hob is having a great time!!! He enjoys seeing Dream in this place of self discovery. Its the closest Dream gets to admiting that he is actually a person who deserves to makes choices and have, ya know, dreams. Sex can be about healing when it's done with good intentions and at the end of the day, all Hob wants is to have Dream safe in his bed. He'll buy as many sets of pyjamas and bundle on as many blankets to the bed as it takes.

And if he gets to make Dream fall asleep with a lovely sloppy blowjob, then that's even better ❤

[qcontinuumumum]

Mortarion AU

After many hours climbing up the last fortress on Barbarus through the toxic mists corroding Mortarion's armoured suit. Blisters, boils and bruises formed on his skin, his breathe became short and ragged as he made his way to the front gate.

The alien guards chuckled at his pain as they aimed crossbows at him, their warp-infused bolts shattered pieces of his armour as he trudged towards them never staggering.

He stopped short of them, the guards still jovial as they were far away from any peasant farmer's makeshift sword, their laughter stopped when he drew his scythe.

The poisons intensified as he approached the door, it's odour foul enough to turn the extinct terran skunk away. This was it, he was going to confront the being that was both his father, the one who taught him in matters of strategy, warfare and artifice; and his tyrant, the one who held him prisoner and used his kind for vile sorcery.

As he approached the high overlord of Barbarus he felt weaker, the strength being drained as if his spirit was being slowly devoured. He fell. He failed. He would falter at the final battle of his own fate.

The tyrant smiled a wicked grin as he held up his hand towards Mortarion, it glowed green with arcane energy and would be the death of both his heir and the freedom of the humans on his domain. "No" Mortarion stubbornly bellowed, "I won't let you win".

The next moments Mortarion heard a deep voice that resonated from everywhere as if atoms could speak to him, it was both jolly and cruel. "You do not have to die, i can teach you to defeat death and all you have to do is to come into my embrace" the sinister voice spoke true and without intervention there was no other fate.

Except for the soft words that were wreathed within the other, it was quiet and gentle and whispered with the sympathy of another rooted to be caged by a cruel master. "do not fear death for it is not the end of all things, for if you live you will never know liberation".

After hearing those words Mortarion let go of his stubborness, his unrelenting will and died. His tattered armour clanged on the ground, his last breathe exhaled and all colour was gone from him. His name meaning the child of death, had died.

A tear dropped onto the rotten wood floor, it seeped through cleaning the mucky surface and sprouted a small blue flower, it was a trumpet in shape and of power as it grew and enveloped the corpse of Mortarion, carressing him into its petals. It cocooned him and glowed with light of life and hummed with sounds of souls once lived among stars shown first fires.

A figure emerged from the cocooned flower as its petals turned into wings, veins that carried poisoned blood now became roots, skin hardened to bark and it had a crystal sphere on its forehead.

The tyrant of Barbarus shrivelled from the radiant light and life from this being as parasites within his body cannibilised each other to survive as his body devoured itself.

The figure spoke "I was Mortarion, slave to death no more".

[seth-whumps]

Whumperless Whump Event Day 6

Heatstroke - whumpee Morrigan - 1086 words

CW: Suicide mission (for humans. Morrigan is a robot)

--

Their systems are top of the line technology. Their body is functionally the best possible piece of mechanical engineering it can be. They have bones stronger than a human’s, hearing as good as a cat’s, eyesight as sharp as an eagle’s and detailed as an artist’s. They are built to be factual and logical, to attack and defend, and to overcome and endure any obstacle in their way.

Morrigan is a machine built to endure.

The Cages have learned this. The heroes “above the peasants”, as JJ calls them, have taken advantage of this fact.

This is why Morrigan is alone on a case. Because only they can endure it. Only they can.

In front of them is a doorway made out of heat-resistant steel. It bears a handle similar to something on a submarine or large metal ship–a lock that requires turning to push open, a release of pressure to contain what’s inside. They’re not programmed to feel apprehension, but they’ve long since disregarded that after JJ explained how emotions work.

Morrigan carefully pulls back the skin on their hand. The metal below is strong and silicon based. The synthetic skin will melt upon contact.

They place their metal palm on the door handle and push, hard.

It begins.

They don’t have as much time as the Cages would predict. Silicon is resistant to high heats only to prevent warping of the skeleton, but the rest of them is a patchwork of materials very easily disabled after high or extended exposure. So when the door opens, they run.

The heat chamber is simple, its contents protected within the safe in the center, its defense an overwhelming wave of painfully hot air that scorches the moment they enter, but they are built to endure and they are not one to deny purpose in exchange for weakness, so to the safe they go.

Morrigan presses their metal palm into the safe, feels its inner workings, and pushes a slight magnetic force into their fingertips. It takes time to manipulate a lock this complex. It takes precious time they do not have. They have a job to do. 

Finally, with a heavy clunk, the safe opens. They snatch the box within, turn back to the door, and slam into it just as it closes, its automatic lock shut down.

Oh, irony.

They touch their ear. A habit built for a cover they do not need, because right now they need to leave. “Cavalry, I am trapped.”

“Immediate recall or rescue infiltration? Journey is outside the building. Are you functional?”

“Functional. The door is shut. I need someone to turn the handle again, it’s pressurized.” For good reason. 

“Journey is approaching your location. Don’t die, Morrigan.”

Cavalry’s voice disconnects. They don’t feel abandoned. She’s busy. There are multiple teams under her jurisdiction and she has many duties to perform within them–and she’s also still right there in their ear for assistance the moment it goes more wrong than it already has. 

They’re rambling. It’s warm.

A heat chamber consists of multiple layers of highly resistant metal and airlocks surrounding one fully pressurized room, where every atom of oxygen and air is moved swiftly to create constant motion, constant heat. Temperatures rise over time. They are built to withstand. Silicon is resistant up to two hundred degrees.

The chamber acts like an air fryer. Even after the door opened, it’s rising to its intended five hundred degrees.

They will not last long.

Morrigan pulls back all of the synthetic skin on their body to prevent extra enclosed heat. Their cooling systems are already in overdrive. Every breath feels like fire. 

“Morrigan, I’m at your location,” Journey says. “Which door?”

“Left. Submarine door.” Their voice has a whine to it now, a high pitched squeal to protest the fans in overdrive and the whistling of any air transmitted as it grows hotter and hotter against their metal casings. “Hurry.”

The airlock door clunks. Morrigan has just enough time to put their skin back on before collapsing into JJ’s arms.

“Jesus, oh my god–” 

They hit the ground and curl up instinctively. “Too long in the oven,” they say by way of example, hoping it explains the boiling feeling inside. 

“Yeah, you sure fucking feel like it. Can you walk? I can’t carry you, you’re like a thousand degrees.” Journey kneels in front of them. “Hey. Where’s your mind at?”

The now cold air is almost too much to handle. They pull themselves to their feet, struggling to keep upright. Everything is warm and cold and it’s… horrible. They would have a better explanation if it weren’t for how horrible everything was.

It doesn’t matter. They have a job to do. They have to complete it.

On unsteady legs, they push forward. “Not done yet,” they whisper, and their voice has a whistle to it, higher pitched, pressurized, a warning. They breathe. “Out first. Then…”

Journey pushes them out of the airlock. “Go. You’re cooling down, lean on me, look like you’re drunk.”

The act is not hard. Journey isn’t a half-bad actor either. He guides them through the halls, up an elevator, out the door, to the mission base like it’s nothing, all half supporting Morrigan, who cannot really tell what’s happening. It’s not a great experience, to be led through several minutes and be unable to differentiate each one.

“Sit,” Journey orders. “Take off your skin, or something, you’re still boiling–”

“‘S scary,” they try to say, but something in their larynx has jumbled itself under the heat. JJ’s eyes are stern and unfaltering.

They once again retract their skin, keeping their gaze on the ground. It’s so hard to think through the whistling in their mind, the flashes of cold, the changes. It’s wrong. 

“You’ll be okay,” JJ whispers. He kneels again. “It’ll take time, but there’s nothing else I can do except be here. Yeah?”

Morrigan nods through the fog. Clasps their metal exposed hands together. Their eyes flutter shut, systems giving way to pull power into the fans and cooling. It will take time. The errors beneath their eyelids are relaxing. They are built to endure. They withstood it. They completed the mission. That is all that matters.

Before stasis takes over, they hear JJ’s voice grow venomously angry. There must be someone else in the room. Morrigan doesn’t mind. They’re safe to rest. But the conversation just barely catches their remaining hearing as they rest–

“None of you are never, ever, sending them into hell alone like that again.”

--

morrigan i am so sorry i promise i love you. i will continue to hurt you. i still love you. also protective JJ finally starts to show his face!!

[pattern-recognition]

re:the brutalism post, what do you mean when you say "the landscape" of the US? My interpretation is that you're talking in terms of literal landmass and how populations are dispersed, so I'm confused about why that'd present a more significant barrier to successful socialist organizing in the US than it did in other, larger countries like China or Russia that have seen successful large-scale socialist/communist movements. I don't mean this as a gotcha - I really don't feel that I'm educated enough to know why it might be notably different in the US.

Where i was going with that post before it evolved into a discourse about brutalism, which i never really intended, was towards the atomization of American social life. More so than any aesthetics of architecture form and what they mean, I was motioning towards the ways in which the built landscape in the US is specifically designed to isolate people, dehumanize them, and make living as hard as possible for people without the privileges of wealth. The most obvious example is the homelessness crisis and car based infrastructure. it’s true that there are more empty homes in the US than there are homeless people, but even then those homes are of the most deleterious type, even compared to other capitalist nations like Francs, Britain, etc. American zoning laws, in most cities, eschew affordable high-rise apartment buildings for single family, two story at most, housing that forces people into having a vested interest, wether they like it or not, in capitalist real-estate speculation through mortgages and whatnot. The phenomenon of suburbia in the United Stated was specifically an anti-communist one and heavily parallels the Wehrbauer system in Nazi Germany. The latter, should it have come to fruition fallowing Gerneralplan Ost (the mass genocide of all eastern european peoples and subsequent resettlement of eastern europe by Germanic colonizers) would have been structured around a system of semi self reliant small business owners and peasants (and I use this word in the Marxian sense, as in small land owners in control of their own means of production) who would act as a bulwark against both physical reprisals by freedom fighters (the Wehrbauers were intended to be heavily armed) as well as an ideological one because communities where everyone is a petit bourgeois would be resistant to Marxist agitation. The parallels to contemporary American suburbs, as well as the settlement and colonization of the west through manifest destiny, should be obvious.

[lipstickontheglass1985]

@vzajemnik tagged me to post my receiptify! ty!!

the top track is kinda self explanatory ithink. yes i finally saw the peasants this month and i think it changed me a bit. i listened to babie lato while running errands around the city for like 2+ hours last week what more can i say. the langs inhospitable and so are we is one of the albums i have downloaded and ive been travelling a bit so no wonder a bunch of tracks on there made it here. sorry abt what apparently is a tiktok song but the beat is really catchy actually.... no idont have tiktok.

ok i think thats all for the commentary, thanks again for the tag i <3 sharing music ive been into on here (naturally). tagging uhhhh @i-am-an-atomic-bomb @moshpitbf @hotyka and @sotiriabellou if u guys feel like it :))

[omgthatdress]

Nanea’s School Dress is a pinafore-style dress that was popular at the time.

The print is a pink-and-teal tropical floral. Having dug around a lot in the history of Hawaiian prints, I’m left frustrated. Not so much by the dress itself, but by the fact that I don’t have enough references to tell if the pattern is authentic or not.

Hawaiian print goes back to the 1920s, when the tourism industry in Hawaii really got underway. Unsurprisingly, there are a lot of individual people and shops claiming to have made it first, so it looks like a case of a bunch of people having the same idea at the same time. Japanese fabric printers at the time used wax resist-dyed fabric to make kimonos, and tailors began adapting that fabric to make bright, colorful shirts. Soon, the more traditional Japanese prints began including colorful florals and patterns inspired by traditional Hawaiian barkcloth tapa, and a booming industry got underway. Then, Pearl Harbor happened. The Japanese printers were put out of business and sent to internment camps. Soon, printers from the mainland rushed in to make a buck filling the gap using silk screen prints. After the war, tourism came back with a vengeance, and the designer Alfred Shaheen set up shop, adding neon-bright colors and mid-century atomic design elements to the mix. Hawaiian print as we know it today was born.

The trouble is, there’s obviously a pretty big discrepancy with pre and post-war prints, but I haven’t been able to really get a good enough look at extant pre-war prints to be able to say very much about it.

One of the kind of stereotype-y things about Nanea’s collection is that it’s ALL tropical print. While Hawaiian women certainly did dress with a local flavor, they also wore plenty of non-tropical stuff, too.

On another note, I absolutely fucking adore her little espadrilles! This style of shoe started ouy among Spanish peasants in the Pyrenees mountains, but were popularized in the 1930s by shoe-maker Salvatore Ferragamo. They were lightweight and comfortable and perfect for summer wear.

Anyone who remembers 9/11 will remember the “remember 9/11″ kitsch that turned up everywhere later. Pearl Harbor was no different. Part of it was cashing in on a very public tragedy, part of it was recognizing the trauma that everyone had just lived through, creating patriotic national unity, and justifying the war that was about to come. Patriotic “Remember (an actual pearl or piece of mother-of-pearl) Harbor” pins were a popular accessory when WW2 began. It may have led to a nightmare after 9/11, but nobody is going to say that American entering WW2 wasn’t justified.

(Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library)

[trentreznortuesday]

every album i listened to this year pt. 1

i listened to 238 albums that were new to me this year. this is the first 119 of them + basic genre tagging.

A Sunny Day In Glasgow - Sea When Absent [noise pop]

ABBA - Volume 25 [karaoke]

Agriculture - Agriculture [black metal]

Agriculture - The Circle Chant [black metal]

Alcest - Écailles de Lune [black metal]

Altar of Plagues - White Tomb [black metal]

Animals as Leaders - Parrhesia [djent]

Another Heaven - 1: You Are Loved [shoegaze]

Art Sorority - Older Boys [folk punk]

Ashenspire - Hostile Architecture [black metal]

Atomic Guava - Peasants of the Future [power metal]

awakebutstillinbed - chaos takes the wheel and i am a passenger [emo]

Bad Religion - New Maps of Hell [punk]

bar italia - Tracey Denim [post-punk]

Basketball Divorce Court - rebound [punk]

Big Black - Atomizer [noise rock]

Big Thief - Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe In You [alt-country]

Black Ends - Stay Evil [noise pop]

Black Math Horseman - Black Math Horseman [black metal]

Blanky - Blood Harmony [alternative]

Bosse-de-Nage - Bosse-de-Nage [black metal]

Bosse-de-Nage - ii [black metal]

Bosse-de-Nage - iii [black metal]

Bosse-de-Nage/Deafheaven - Split EP [black metal]

boybrain - In The Company of Worms [punk]

Bríi - Último Ancestral Comum [rock]

Cable Ties - All Her Plans [punk]

Callous Daoboys - Celebrity Therapist [hardcore]

Charlie Megira - Da Abtomatic Meisterzinger Mambo Chic [lo-fi]

Chat Pile - God’s Country [sludge metal]

Chat Pile - Remove Your Skin Please [sludge metal]

Chat Pile - This Dungeon Earth [sludge metal]

Chat Pile & Nerver - Brothers in Christ [sludge metal]

Cherub Tree - where are your manners [alternative]

Choncy - Community Chest [post-punk]

Corker - Falser Truths [post-punk]

Crime of Passing - Crime of Passing [post-punk]

Dark Factory - Dark Factory [new wave]

Days ‘N Daze - Rogue Taxidermy [folk punk]

Days ‘N Daze - Songs We Recorded for Splits [folk punk]

Dazy - OTHERBODY [alternative]

Deafheaven - New Bermuda [blackgaze]

Deafheaven - Sunbather [blackgaze]

Deeper - Careful! [post-punk]

Dirty Old Town - No Returning Home [alternative]

Dummy - Mandatory Enjoyment [post-punk]

dust - et cetera, etc [punk]

Eddy Arnold - Cattle Call [country]

Ekko Astral - Quartz [punk]

Ekko Astral - The Quartz Farewell [punk]

Elizabeth Colour Wheel - Nocebo [black metal]

Erik Hall - Canto Ostinato (Simeon ten Holt) [neo-classical]

Erik Hall - Music For 18 Musicians (Steve Reich) [neo-classical]

Explosions in the Sky - All of a Sudden, I Miss Everyone [post-rock]

Explosions in the Sky - How Strange, Innocence [post-rock]

Ezra Furman - All of Us Flames [art rock]

Ezra Furman - Perpetual Motion People [art rock]

Ezra Furman - Transangelic Exodus [art rock]

Ezra Furman - Twelve Nudes [art rock]

Feeble Little Horse - Girl with Fish [shoegaze]

Fela Kuti - Beasts of No Nation [afrobeat]

Fela Kuti - Coffin for Head of State [afrobeat]

Fela Kuti - Expensive Shit [afrobeat]

Fela Kuti - Roforofo Fight [afrobeat]

Fela Kuti - Zombie! [afrobeat]

Feminazgûl - The Age of Men is Over [black metal]

Frail Body - A Brief Memoriam [hardcore]

Fucked Up - Dose Your Dreams [hardcore]

GEL - Only Constant [hardcore]

Genital Shame - Gathering My Wits [alternative]

Gilla Band - Live at Vicar Street [noise rock]

Godcaster - Godcaster [psychedelic rock]

Hatchie - Giving the World Away [dream pop]

hey, Ily! - Internet Breath [bedroom pop]

Hoaxed - Hoaxed [alternative]

Home is Where - i became birds [emo]

Home is Where - our mouths to smile [emo]

Home Is Where - The Whaler [emo]

Horse Lords - Comradely Objects [microtonal]

Horse Lords - Hidden Cities [microtonal]

Horse Lords - Interventions [microtonal]

Horse Lords - The Common Task [microtonal]

Hot Snakes - Automatic Midnight [post-hardcore]

Housewives - Twilight Splendor [post-punk]

Ian Noe - Between the Country [bluegrass]

illuminati hotties - FREE I.H.: This Is Not the One You’ve Been Waiting For [pop rock]

Institute - Readjusting the Locks [post-punk]

Jane’s Addiction - Nothing’s Shocking [alternative]

Jeff Rosenstock - HELLMODE [punk]

Jeff Rosenstock - No Dream [punk]

Jeff Rosenstock - POST- [punk]

Jeff Rosenstock & Laura Stevenson - Still Young [punk]

Josaleigh Pollett - In The Garden, By The Weeds [bedroom pop]

julie - pushing daisies [alternative]

Kitten Forever - 7 Hearts [riot grrrl]

Kurt Vile - b’lieve i’m goin down… [alt-country]

Lamp of Murmuur - Saturnian Bloodstorm [power metal]

Leonard Bernstein - Chichester Psalms [choral]

Leonard Cohen - New Skin for the Old Ceremony [folk]

Leonard Cohen - Songs from a Room [folk]

Leonard Cohen - You Want It Darker [folk]

Liturgy - 93696 [black metal]

M(h)aol - Attachment Styles [post-punk]

M(h)aol - Gender Studies [post-punk]

Malthusian - MMXIII [black metal]

Mamaleek - Cadejos [black metal]

Mamaleek - Come and See [black metal]

Mamaleek - Diner Coffee [black metal]

Mamaleek - Those Who Pass Between Fleeting Worlds [black metal]

Mandy, Indiana - i’ve seen a way [post-punk]

MDC - Live at CBGB’s [hardcore]

MDC - Millions of Dead Children [hardcore]

MDC - Millions of Dead Cops [hardcore]

MDC - Multi-Death Corporations [hardcore]

Meat Puppets - Meat Puppets II [alternative]

Meat Puppets - Up on the Sun [alternative]

Messa - Close [hard rock]

meth. - Mother of Red Light [noise rock]

Midori - Aratamemashite, Hajimemashite, Midori Desu [hardcore jazz punk]

[cosmik-homo]

Sending u kaladin and Kelsier for blorbo bingo!

Kaladin

The THING w kaladin stormblessed as a blorbo is. you gotta understand i was reading the just-released-the-day-before premier preorder WOR translation on the bus in seventh grade field trip. kaladin stormblessed has been blorbo so long- hes been part of my LIFE so long i love him fiercely and have blorbo emotions but also we went to high school together im not gonna marvel that hes there and what crushes i had a much less fierce now. that being siad he is theee character ever doylistically absolute king of being a guy in a book. and watsonianly i am so so proud of him and hows he doing now and from both perspectives if he dies in s5 im tracking down brandon sanderson and putting explosive flies in his soup.

Kelsier

Again im sure these would be different if you caught me at a Cosmere Hyperfixation- stick around lets see what i become during stormlight5- AND theres the added. my emotions r being filtered through depressive episode, but. My lead emotion looking at this- while for kaladin it was affection and pride.admiration- was the memory of going "MOTHERFUCKER" and throwing the book in the end of That Last Fuckin Chapter of Rhythm Of War. running to find my mom (cosmere comrade, usually finishes books a bit before me) and going HES FUCKIN AT IT AGAIN. and he IS this man has been delivering MOTHERFUCKER moments for the past 6+ years and I NEED him to just be normal. youre a 16th century peasant stop trying to split the atom or whatever the fuckk youre up to. i NEED the church of the survivor to stop praying to my awful crime grandpa he is getting too powerful. hes the worst man ever and hes great and i miss him so much and- yeah im losing my mind now the adrenaline rush of accidentally giving myself new ideas about what the ghostbloods are up to has made all the "Hur dur sorry im not super tuned to care on these fandoms rn" a bit redundant. UNSTOPPABLE BITCH. and now oh god i just remembered the live experience that was fortnite night. yea im gonna go wash my face

[beardedmrbean]

“Somewhere along the way the angry folks that used to say the whole 'trad' 'atomic family' with mom staying home and dad making a living for the family is a recent thing switched over and forgot that it's really only the industrial age that made that possible.”

Yes thank you! Sorry in recent media which very painfully obvious in fantasy (dear lord Disney princesses been taking such a beating)

But I notice a lot of people says “these characters finally at like teens/kids” when it more boils down to “these characters act like the ideal and post industrial age versions of kids and teens”

Sorry for the tangent this apply to that screenshot I sent to. Like the whole idea that moms doing work where carrying their things is a capitalist invention.

Hmm, also like yeah moms can be career women. But as one liberal women said

Modern socialism and feminism want women to be slaves to the corporations they will toss them out like paper if shit goes bad vs being a irreplaceable part of a family

>. Like the whole idea that moms doing work where carrying their things is a capitalist invention.

Not many easy to find pics of early soviet era farm workers that I can actually trust to be honest and not staged.

But ya peasants in the SU did things the way they did them when they were peasants in the Russian empire before that, and peasants in whichever Khanate they lived in before that, and the Mongol empire before that, and so on and so forth.

Much like the people in Europe did and the people in Africa did and the people in Asia and both Americas did.

We live in a time of unparalleled luxury from a historical standpoint. At least in the US and western world in general you're expected to go to school until you're 18, then college after if you choose to.

130 years ago, if you didn't have money

You went to work

[etudiantfantome]

"The mistake of the theorists of the labour movement was as follows. They often described capitalist social relations in terms of a foundational fracturing: the separation of peasants from the land generated a propertyless proletariat. However, the class relation is not only established through a foundational fracturing; it also confirms that fracturing in every moment. Capitalism realises the fracturing of social existence as the “unity-in-separation” of market society, an interdependence of everyone on everyone else, which nevertheless reduces individuals to isolated atoms, facing off against one another in market competition. This is especially true for proletarians, whose very survival depends on competing with other proletarians, and who therefore face the most barriers to collective organisation (as we have argued elsewhere, it is not the eventual decline of working class identity, but rather its emergence despite these barriers, which needs to be explained)."

A history of separation

[nando161mando]

In order to consolidate its rule, the emerging Stalinist elite had to break down actual and potential opposition emanating from virtually the entire society: the peasants who resisted forced collectivization, and the industrial workers (largely drawn from that same peasantry), the majority of whom resented and to a certain extent resisted the hardships and pressures of industrialization. This required an atomization of the population, in particular the working class—not perhaps a total destruction of mutual solidarity, but the elimination of its ability to function collectively as a class, and the erosion of its consciousness of itself as a class. At the same time, the bureaucratic, almost cavalier planlessness of the Five Year Plans created a deep labor shortage. For the regime this was to prove a fatal combination: a depoliticized, but alienated and bitter work force which, because labor power was desperately scarce, could neither be induced nor compelled to work efficiently

[methed-up-marxist]

Parliamentary cretins, who consider themselves connoisseurs of the people, like to repeat:

“One must not frighten the middle classes with revolution. They do not like extremes.”

In this general form, this affirmation is absolutely false. Naturally, the petty proprietor prefers order so long as business is going well and so long as he hopes that tomorrow it will go better.

But when this hope is lost, he is easily enraged and is ready to give himself over to the most extreme measures. Otherwise, how could he have overthrown the democratic state and brought fascism to power in Italy and Germany? The despairing petty bourgeois sees in fascism, above all, a fighting force against big capital, and believes that, unlike the working-class parties which deal only in words, fascism will use force to establish more “justice”. The peasant and the artisan are in their manner realists. They understand that one cannot forego the use of force.

It is false, thrice false, to affirm that the present petty bourgeoisie is not going to the working-class parties because it fears “extreme measures”. Quite the contrary. The lower petty bourgeoisie, its great masses, only see in the working-class parties parliamentary machines. They do not believe in their strength, nor in their capacity to struggle, nor in their readiness this time to conduct the struggle to the end.

And if this is so, is it worth the trouble to replace the democratic capitalist representatives by their parliamentary confreres on the left? That is how the semi-exploited, ruined, and discontented proprietor reasons of feels. Without an understanding of this psychology of the peasants, the artisans, the employees, the petty functionaries, etc. – a psychology which flows from the social crisis – it is impossible to elaborate a correct policy. The petty bourgeoisie is economically dependent and politically atomized. That is why it cannot conduct an independent policy. It needs a “leader” who inspires it with confidence. This individual or collective leadership, i.e., a personage or party, can be given to it by one or the other of the fundamental classes – either the big bourgeoisie or the proletariat. Fascism unties and arms the scattered masses. Out of human dust, it organizes combat detachments. It thus gives the petty bourgeoisie the illusion of being an independent force. It begins to imagine that it will really command the state. It is not surprising that these illusions and hopes turn the head of the petty bourgeoisie!

But the petty bourgeoisie can also find a leader in the proletariat. This was demonstrated in Russia and partially in Spain. In Italy, in Germany, and in Austria, the petty bourgeoisie gravitated in this direction. But the parties of the proletariat did not rise to their historic task.

To bring the petty bourgeoisie to its side, the proletariat must win its confidence. And for that it must have confidence in its own strength.

It must have a clear program of action and must be ready to struggle for power by all possible means. Tempered by it revolutionary party for a decisive and pitiless struggle, the proletariat says to the peasants and petty bourgeoisie of the cities:

“We are struggling for power. Here is our program. We are ready to discuss with you changes in this program. We will employ violence only against big capital and its lackeys, but with you toilers, we desire to conclude an alliance on the basis of a given program.”

The peasants will understand such language. Only, they must have faith in the capacity of the proletariat to seize power.

But for that it is necessary to purge the united front of all equivocation, of all indecision, of all hollow phrases. It is necessary to understand the situation and to place oneself seriously on the revolutionary road. -Trotsky, Whither France?, 1934

[stoicbreviary]

James Vila Blake, Sonnets from Marcus Aurelius 15 

15. 

μᾶλλον δέ σοι ἡ τούτου νόησις προσπεσεῖται, ἐὰν πρὸς ἑαυτὸν πολλάκις λέγῃς, ὅτι μέλος εἰμὶ τοῦ ἐκ τῶν λογικῶν συστήματος. ἐὰν δὲ διὰ τοῦ ῥῶ στοιχείου μέρος εἶναι ἑαυτὸν λέγῃς, οὔπω ἀπὸ καρδίας φιλεῖς τοὺς ἀνθρώπους: οὔπω σε καταληκτικῶς εὐφραίνει τὸ εὐεργετεῖν: ἔτι ὡς πρέπον αὐτὸ ψιλὸν ποιεῖς, οὔπω ὡς ἑαυτὸν εὖ ποιῶν. 

All rational beings are meant to work together. But knowledge of this will come over you better if often you say to yourself: I am a vital part, like a limb, of the body of reasoning creatures. But if you call yourself no more than a thing among things, you not yet love mankind from the heart, nor yet does well-doing delight you for its own sake, as not looking beyond itself. You are practicing good conduct still as a bare suitableness, not yet as conferring a boon on yourself. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.13 

15. 

Of all secrets methinks the secret is this,  That I behold me membered with the all;  No separate shred, whereunto is no bliss,  But one with One, whereby all joys befall.  If I seem but an atom, a bit, a mote,  A flick o’ tonguey flames of circumstance,  Can atoms love one another, or take note  Of the one bond in th’ various expanse?  Have up thy heart to the lighted style of space,  Where hang the lamps that wink no partial eye  For prince or peasant. Else thy goodly grace  Will be no more than fashion passing by.  This above all: Say, at thy charities,  I now befriend myself with companies. 

[starrynightmuse]

You Owe Me a Debt: Chap 3

Masterlist / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Author's Note: This is definitely not a parody. You should take everything in this fanfic 100% seriously. This story is true to canon. It really happened. Trust me, I was there.

Story Summary: As the second son of King Visery's second wife, Aemond Targaryen is given only a small allowance. The measly funds were nowhere near enough to pay for the prince's daily necessities, such as his 16-step Olaplex haircare routine. The young prince is secretly forced to live on credit and he must count every last cent he spends. One day, someone steals his money, leaving Aemond penniless and angry. Will he be able to get his money back or will his broke ass be humiliated in front of court for not being able to pay his Klarnax installments for his sapphire?

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Visenya Targaryen (Rhaenyra's Daughter) but ironically.

Rating: PG 13

Chapter 3: Two Dragons in King's Landing

Words: 3.668k

Warnings: Profanity, evil children, finance bro language.

Visenya didn’t think she could stand another minute of her father’s ear-splitting music.

The princess was rudely woken by the sound of Daemon practicing in his studio, the music booming through the walls of the entire castle. Since they lived in medieval times, Dragonstone didn’t have soundproof walls, and the bass was so loud that Visenya felt as if all the molecules in her body were shaking and about to explode like an atomic bomb.

Yo, Lord Fleabottom is my name

Amongst the smallfolk is where I got my fame

I got a dragon that spits out fire, I ride it, I take flight

But it ain’t the only thing that’s getting ridden tonight

If she had to hear another “Yo, Lord Fleabottom is my name” for one more time, Visenya was going to burn the entire island down. She has had to greet all of her mornings this way for weeks now, and she was sick and tired of it. She needed to get away from the castle, stat.

Rubbing her eyes and groaning at the headache that was forming in her head, she groggily got out of bed and staggered toward her closet.

As the daughter of King Viserys’ heiress, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Visenya was a nepo baby. Hence, she had to walk through her walk-in closet for twenty minutes (it was more of a walk-in corridor), passing row after row of lavish dresses, to eventually reach the end, where she kept her recession core clothes.

Recession core was the new rage for the elites in Essos, however, the trend hadn’t caught on in Westeros. The style was all about prioritizing comfort and simplicity over extravagance and ostentation. It imitated the garments worn by the smallfolk, and the clothes looked seemingly indifferentiable to peasant clothes at first glance, but Recession core brands used higher quality fabrics. A simple tunic would cost over 1,000 gold dragons.

The appeal lay in the fact that the clothes made the wearer seem to be indifferent to wealth and privilege, but at the same time own garments that were utterly inaccessible for commoners.

Visenya, however, wasn’t a fan of the minimalism. She preferred the opulence and grandeur of her ball gowns, with their shimmering fabrics and golden threads embroidered with the symbols of her house, their dragons. Who needs minimalism when you can flaunt your riches and look fabulous while doing it?

In Westeros, clothing had political significance, serving as a display of influence and power. But there were places across the Narrow Sea where the smallfolk were getting tired of their nobility. Places where whispers of a new idea called “democracy” could be heard in corners of dimly lit pubs in the dead of night. Feeling threatened, the elites had adopted recession core to give an appearance of humility.

Visenya hadn’t worn recession core since her trip to Essos last year, but an appearance of humility was just what she needed right now to make her escape.

The princess changed into a simple woolen tunic and breeches. She threw her long platinum hair up into a tight bun and covered it with a grey cap, taking care to make sure not one strand of her hair was visible. Slipping on an uninteresting pair of brown leather shoes and swinging a dark cloak over her, she tip-toed out of her chambers.

Visenya crept through Dragonstone's back rooms, through the servant quarters, and eventually reached the tunnel that led the way out of the castle. Once outside, she started the rocky, rap music-free path up the Dragonmount where her dragon rested.

As she climbed the mountain, she came across her brother, Lucerys, sitting cross-legged on top of a boulder, his Macbook on his lap. Visenya halted in her tracks.

“Luke?” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” he asked skeptically, eyeing the simple clothes she wore. Visenya quickly wrapped her cloak tight around her.

“You first,” she said.

“I have a Zoom meeting in fifteen minutes,” Luke replied. “The signal is better here than in the castle.”

Visenya raised her eyebrows. Luke sighed.

“And it’s much quieter,” he confessed.

“What’s your Zoom meeting for?” the princess inquired, making her way to her brother's side to sneak a peek at his screen.

“It’s for a strategic planning session," Luke replied. "I'm meeting with the team to go over our financial projections for the year and make any necessary adjustments to our business plan. We’ll also be discussing potential partnerships with other firms. It’s been a big year and I want to make sure we’re taking advantage of all the opportunities that come our way so we can stay competitive in the market and maximize our revenue.”

“I don’t speak Jeff Bezos language, Luke,” Visenya said, teasing him. “But cool. CEO stuff, eh? Maybe Mother might let you do business full-time and let Rhaena rule Driftmark instead.” Although Luke and Rhaena weren’t betrothed yet, it had always been hinted in their family that the two would become the future Lord and Lady of Driftmark.

Luke chuckled as he cast his eyes down at the ground.

“In a perfect world, perhaps,” he said, sighing. “Gods, do I wish to be free from the burdens of politics.” He looked up at Visenya and paused for a beat, frowning. “You’re sneaking out, aren’t you?

“Please cover for me? I can’t stand his music anymore. They probably use it at Guantanamo Bay. Plus, I’m dying out of the boredom of being stuck in that gloomy castle,” Visenya pleaded.

“A princess stuck in a castle full of servants, with everything she’d ever want or need within arm’s length. What a tragedy,” Luke said with mock pity.

Visenya pouted. “Don’t be a meanie, Lukey.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Hm, how about…the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai or… the Ruins of Valyria or…the Red Dunes of Dorne…” Visenya waved her hands in a grand, dramatic gesture as she said each location as if she were performing a play. “Ooh, I know! Maybe I’ll go to France! Jacaerys says it’s a fictional place that’s only in Ratatouille but I know, deep down in the bottom of my heart, that he's wrong because it’s real—”

“Visenya.”

“—Or maybe I shall pay a visit to our aunt and uncles in King’s Landing!”

Luke’s expression shifted into concern. “You’re not supposed to,” he said, his voice low. “Mother said—”

“To hell with what Mother said,” Visenya retorted.

“She will throw a fit if she ever finds out that you were in King’s Landing.”

“She won’t if you cover for me.”

Luke let out an exasperated breath. “I can’t lie for you, ‘enya,” he groaned, running a hand through his dark curls. “It’s not ethical. It feels wrong. It’s like wearing a fur coat to an animal rights rally.”

“Well, I’m going to wear my evil fur coat anyway. What are you going to do? Fight me?” Visenya mocked, putting her hands on her hip. She knew Luke would never actually fight her. “You know I’ll win.”

“Yeah, right,” Luke scoffed, but there was no malice in his voice and his eyes were full of amusement.

“Have fun with your Zoom meeting with Mark Zuckerfuck and Warren Buffalo, Lukey Lou,” Visenya said, trudging past him and continuing her journey up the Dragonmount.

“Be safe! Don’t go looking for trouble,” Luke called. Visenya looked back.

“When have I ever?” she said, giving her brother a mischievous grin.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

When Aemond opened his eyes, the sun was already shining through his windows and the castle was noisy with activity. A wave of panic swept over him.

Fuck, I overslept, he thought. He had planned to venture out into King’s Landing early at sunrise to get himself a job, and now he was already behind schedule.

Aemond threw his blankets to the side and jumped out of bed. He sped through his haircare routine and started to dress as quickly as possible. As he pulled on his jacket, Aemond felt his heart racing and his palms sweating. Today was the first day of job hunting and he was starting off on the wrong foot.

The servants had already set up his breakfast on the table in his chambers. Just as he was about to sit down for a quick bite, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," the prince said.

It was the serving boy he saw yesterday at his father’s solar — a scrawny lad of around two and ten. He was gingerly holding a small package wrapped in a green cloth. The boy gulped as he made eye contact with Aemond. He stepped forward and presented the package timidly with both hands.

“Prince Aegon sent this to you as a gift,” he squeaked. Aemond raised a single eyebrow. He took the bundle from the serving boy and the lad scurried off.

Sitting down at his dining table, Aemond unwrapped the cloth, revealing a glass bottle filled with a golden oil and a small note scrawled in his brother’s horrendous handwriting.

Sorry about your serum.

Aemond held the glass bottle up to the light to inspect it, turning it in his hands. Cautiously, he pulled the cork from the bottle and sniffed it. A pungent smell wafted up his nostrils.

Olive oil. Aegon’s idea of haircare.

Aemond tossed the bottle into the trash.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

On Aemond’s thirteenth nameday, Aegon had shown him a secret tunnel that ran from Maegor’s Holdfast to the heart of the city. His first experience of the tunnel was not a particularly happy one. Aemond had hoped that he would never have to use it again, but now he was grateful that he knew of its existence.

To disguise himself, he had stolen peasant clothes from the servant’s quarters and thrown a cloak over his head. For good measure, Aemond had also ditched his conspicuous eyepatch in favor of a large pair of black sunglasses. He thought he looked like the guys in Men in Black, but a cooler, hotter medieval version.

Sneaking out of the Red Keep was easy. Finding a job in King’s Landing was much harder.

Every shop he tried already had enough staff or wasn’t even hiring. He’s knocked on the doors of a dozen storehouses, asked all the vendors in Cobbler’s Square, and pleaded to the blacksmiths on the Street of Steel. He even ventured into a fish market, bile rising up his throat at the stench, but the merchants all shooed him off as if he were nothing more than shit stuck at the bottom of their shoe.

And there was quite a lot of that in King’s Landing. Aemond couldn’t count the number of times he had to side-step puddles of piss and excrement on the streets. Occasionally, people would empty their chamber pots from their windows. Once Aemond had gotten very close to being drenched in the waste, and he would have if he hadn’t had the quick reflexes he learned from sword fighting. To make things worse, King’s Landing was especially hot today, making the city stink even more than usual.

The bells of the Great Sept chimed twelve. Aemond's stomach grumbled. If he were at the Red Keep, he’d be having lunch by now.

Aemond might’ve been born a prince, but out here, as he wandered in the very city his family ruled, his silver hair and violet eye hidden in commoner’s garb, he could not help but feel like a mere speck of dust in a vast universe. He hadn't felt this helpless since the night he lost his eye.

Eventually, the prince came across a shabby old store that advertised a job opening.

Aemond’s heart skipped a beat. Finally! He moved closer to the shop window to get a better look at the sign.

Now Hiring — Desk Clerk.

Must Have Master’s Degree.

Must Have A Positive Attitude.

Must Be Fluent in Every Language Ever.

Must Have Worked for NASA and Gone to the Moon, Twice.

Must Have At Least 99 Years of Experience in Customer Service.

Must be Proficient in the Art of Time Travel and Have At Least 

Five Years of Experience in A Time Travel Related Field

Must Have Two Eyes.

Aemond shook his head in disbelief. Feeling dispirited, he continued down the street.

“Larys' feet photography service is sounding very good now,” he muttered to himself.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

From high above on her dragon, Visenya had a breathtaking view of the Red Keep. The fortress dominated the skyline of King's Landing like a red giant, looming over the city with its majestic towers and sharp spires reaching up toward the heavens.

Visenya was impressed. Although Dragonstone was imposing, the Red Keep had an elegance that her ancestral home lacked.

She parked her dragon on the outskirts of the city, landing gently in an isolated area near a wood. 

"I want you to stay low for me, can you do that for me, Silverwing?" She asked the dragon. Silverwing huffed.

"How long will I be gone? Well, I don't know exactly," Visenya said. Silverwing tilted her head, swinging her tail.

"Uh, yeah, you can take a leave."

Silverwing narrowed her eyes. Visenya sighed.

"A paid leave. For the entire week."

Silverwing let out a puff of smoke.

"Fine, two weeks. You should be grateful, that's more than what most Americans get in a year."

The dragon took off without looking back.

As she approached the city gates, Visenya noticed several guards keeping watch at the entrance. They were stopping any traveler who wished to pass. She saw one of them unhood a peasant boy before stepping away and letting him enter the gates. Visenya froze in her tracks for a moment, trying to think of a way to enter the city without being identified.

Then she remembered she had her Uber app on her phone. She quickly pulled it out and ordered a ride.

Can't wait to see the city, she thought as she sat down against a tree not far from the road. Maybe I'll even try some street food.

A horse-drawn wagon arrived three hours later.

Trust King’s Landing to have a terrible Uber service, Visenya thought, getting up from her spot beneath the tree. She took a few seconds to catch her balance, for her legs had fallen asleep.

The driver was a fragile-looking old man with a long, wispy beard. His face was lined with deep wrinkles and he wore a faded brown tunic that was a few sizes too big for him. When he saw her, he was taken aback.

“Where’s yer master, boy?” he called. Visenya instinctively reached to pull her cap down in case some silver hairs came loose.

“It’s just me, sir,” she said in her best I-am-definitely-not-a-woman voice.

“Didn’t expect yer,” the old man said. “No one from 'round here uses Uber. It's always the rich Braavosi merchants who call me when they visit the area. Yer a Kingslander, boy?”

“No, sir. Just a visitor.”

“Aye. That explains it.”

Visenya climbed in the back of the wagon and tried to look as discreet as possible as they approached the gates. Just as she suspected, the Gold Cloaks only cared about her driver and let them go without ever giving her a glance.

They probably don't know what an Uber is, Visenya thought. Clearly, the Gold Cloaks had not managed to stay up to date with the world since Daemon left the City Watch.

The old man dropped her off in a bustling square at the center of King's Landing. Visenya took in the new sights around her. The sounds of carts, horses, and people melded into a constant hum that permeated through the city.

Her parents avoided King’s Landing like a plague. The stories she had heard behind their reasoning were too many and varied to count. From tales of her brother Luke slashing her uncle’s eye in a fight to her father’s unceasing hatred for her step-grandmother to her grandsire’s outrage at Rhaenyra and Daemon's marriage. But all of these had added up to mean only one thing to her: Visenya had never seen the majestic city that held the seat of her family’s power.

But now she was starting to think she would've been just fine without seeing it. From the sky, King's Landing looked marvelous with its beautiful red roofs. But on the ground, right in the very heart of it, it was a very different story.

It's like the smell of a person's armpits after a decade of no bathing was made into a city, Visenya thought. She wished she had brought her Dior J'Adore Eau De Parfum.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Aemond Targaryen has seen his share of challenges throughout his nineteen-year-old life. He has had his eye taken out, been subjected to bullying by his brother and his nephews, and he's had to endure the embarrassment of having his delirious father mistake him for his older half-sister a dozen times.

Aemond Targaryen was also not a weak man. He was easily the most talented swordsman in all of King's Landing and had been taught by Ser Criston Cole himself. He had trained with the blade and spent years studying history and philosophy to prepare himself for the Targaryen Hunger Games and hopefully the Iron Throne (should Aegon die prematurely by alcohol poisoning).

But nothing could have prepared him to be dressed in a Vhagar mascot costume in King's Landing's Journey into Old Valyria Theme Park.

The afternoon sun beat down on him as he stood in front of a volcano-shaped roller coaster called The Fourteen Fires. Sweat beaded down his temples. His costume made him feel like he was being baked alive.

It wasn't the ideal job, but it was the only one hiring that didn't require any experience or qualifications.

Aemond stood watching as families moved past him. A little boy of around five years was perched on top of his father's shoulders, a wide smile on his face as he gazed at the attractions.

Aemond couldn’t remember the last time Viserys even held his hand.

It was ironic, really. Journey into Old Valyria was his father's idea. After years of carefully constructing a model of Old Valyria, the king had decided for a theme park to be built based on his model. There would be dragon-themed roller coasters, dragon-themed bumper cars, and 4D dark rides that would transport riders back to the days of the ancient city, the king decided.

The theme park was built soon after Rhaenyra and her clan had left for Dragonstone. The king, weighed down by the grief of his favorite child's departure, had taken up the vanity project. Alicent had been more than willing to encourage it, sensing that it kept Viserys occupied and out of her bed.

Aemond had only been here once, at its opening when he was fifteen. That day had ended with Aegon's hair being set on fire and Otto grabbing the nearest fire hose to douse it. 

They never came here again.

Aemond snapped out of his thoughts as a little boy ran up to him. The prince raised a large claw and gave the child a wave. The kid squealed and started grabbing his tail.

"Whoa, hey buddy, not the tail," Aemond said.

The kid didn't listen. Aemond backed away but the little boy only squealed louder and ran after him. The sound attracted the attention of other children and soon he had a horde of tiny humans chasing him, trying to grab his tail with their grubby little hands.

"Vhagar! Vhagar! Vhagar!" They chanted.

He tried to outrun them but the costume made his movements sluggish. Aemond felt his world tilting and before he knew it, he had been tackled to the ground. The children piled on top of him, chanting while tugging at his snout and pulling at his wigs. Aemond felt like he was being sacrificed in a satanic ritual.

"Arrgh— fuck off!" Aemond shouted, trying to shake them off.

"Vhagar! Vhagar! VHAGAR!"

The prince felt a sickening feeling forming in his stomach. He had not eaten since breaking fast and it was now well into the afternoon. The heat and exhaustion were taking a toll on him, and Aemond suddenly felt nauseous and had an urgency to throw up.

With the kids still on him, he started gagging and hacking. Vomit spewed out of the eye holes of his Vhagar costume. The kids' joyful shouts quickly turned to ones of utter horror and, in seconds, they all ran, screaming in every direction.

Aemond groaned. With his vomit splattered on Costume Vhagar, he stumbled as he began searching for the nearest trash can, trying to keep his feet under him as he fought some dizziness. He finally found a large green garbage bin at the back of the visitor center. Aemond quickly threw the vomit-soaked dragon costume inside it.

With sweat dripping off his forehead and puke stained on his clothes, the prince sat down on the ground beside the bin to catch his breath, pulling his knees together against his chest. He took off his black sunglasses and his hood, letting his silver hair hang loose over his shoulder.

Although the back of the building was thankfully isolated, Aemond no longer had the strength to care about being recognized.

You're not going to cry, you're not going to cry, he told himself, staring at his hands. You didn't cry when he took out your eye, you sure as hell aren't going to cry just because some children attacked you.

"Are you alright, Uncle Aemond?"

Aemond's head snapped up in a panic. A peasant boy of around his age was walking towards him.

Aemond was thinking that the lad had unusually curvy hips when the boy pulled his cap down and let a wave of silver hair — the same color as his own — cascade down his back. Aemond took a closer look at his face and realized it was actually a girl.

"Who are you?" Aemond gasped.

Chapter 4: The Drag Queen Vhagar

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Poor Aemond had a rough day :(