#fragile presumptions

[ahb-writes]

Comics Review: ‘Himawari House’

Himawari House by Harmony Becker My rating: 5 of 5 stars South Korea. Hyejung fled the suffocating pressures of family expectations as well as a messy (and unresolved) personal relationship that never had a chance to succeed. She doesn't know who she is, much less what she wishes to do in life ("I couldn't go back to seeing things the way they had been [..] I hate myself when I'm at home."). Singapore. Tina sees purpose everywhere and in everyone, except within herself. She's a hard worker, a horrible student, and on the precipice of depression ("I can't take this anymore. I don't feel like myself."). America. Nao Daniels is a biracial woman taking a year off between high school and college. Bearing the familiar burden of being neither here nor there, neither welcomed nor unwished-for, Nao's racial and ethnic half-ness has pushed her to live and study in Japan. A year abroad? The goals are numerous, whether for Nao to discover herself, learn more about the culture and people her mother left behind, or to deepen her Japanese language skills. But the numbness that comes from being an "other," no matter where one resides, only intensifies the burden ("No matter how much I learn, I don't know if it is enough."). HIMAWARI HOUSE is painfully relatable and unrepentantly exposes the fragile presumptions so easily and readily assembled to salve the wounds native of one's disintegrating youth. This graphic novel is about place and placelessness, as well as the many different types of people who ramble and scramble their way toward some semblance of peace. Hyejung, Tina, and Nao board in a sharehouse for a year, along with a pair of brothers, Japanese. The three women stress about their studies, glow over their adoration of classic shoujo comics, make a sound argument for Japanese food, weep over their beloved K-dramas, and debate their comical incompatibility with being multilingual in a nation where none of them speak the local language fluently. HIMAWARI HOUSE tracks these three women's eager attempt to understand themselves, and one another, in a country where none of them fully know the culture. If Hyejung gets into a local university, will the stress she felt when her parents worked themselves to the bone utterly evaporate or will it intensify? If Tina opens herself up to loving someone other than the pop star whose magical lyrics tether her to the earth, will that further root or asymmetrically invalidate her state of constant emotional agitation? If Nao learns the Japanese language as well as assorted Japanese customs, will she ever surpass the dreaded gaijin diagnosis? Of being a facile foreigner? Or will she finally assimilate, which is, itself, an eternally dubious enterprise? HIMAWARI HOUSE is an interesting and slyly impressive accomplishment. The graphic novel is composed of multiple points of view, written effectively in at least three languages, and concedes a warm visual style that lends its characters the space and depth they need to act, speak, laugh, and cry, and all in ways that are wholly inimitable. The art is funny and beautiful and dramatic and occasionally referential. One finds it remarkable for a graphic novel to read so smoothly while also being so complex on account of being such a profoundly layered and dynamic narrative of young adulthood. It's the kind of book that deserves to be reread; it's difficult to appreciate, with only one read, some characters' linguistic somersaults, the artist's compositional changes in lighting for a late-night hot pot, a background character's dimples, the book's clever and idiosyncratic title pages, and so forth. For example, late in the book is a chapter on mothers (and mothering). Nao reminisces on how hurt and lonely her Japanese mother must have felt, uprooted, only for the woman's two children to push back whenever her Japanese cultural sensibilities crept into their American lives. The scene is an emotional fissure in need of closure, but it's equally hard for readers to imagine Nao ever moving forward without having acknowledged it in the first place. That's the kind of book HIMAWARI HOUSE is; it's an acknowledgment of the splintering cultural rites one takes for granted, and an observation of the structural presumptions one often assembles, erroneously, in their place.

Comics/Book Reviews || ahb writes on Good Reads

[molsno]

Another hallmark of "just asking questions" coverage of detransition is a tendency to focus on individuals who were assigned female at birth. Similarly, proponents of "ROGD/social contagion" often claim that the supposed condition disproportionately impacts "young girls," especially those with autism or mental health issues, although the statistics and rationales they cite in support of such claims are deeply flawed. This emphasis on "girls" and "mental illness" appears to purposely play into traditionally sexist and ableist presumptions that these groups are inherently fragile, susceptible to persuasion, and incapable of making informed decisions about their own bodies and lives. After all, the "cisgender people turned transgender" trope is most effective when its imagined "victims" are constructed as "innocent" and "vulnerable." Perhaps the most illustrative example of this tactic can be found in Abigail Shrier's 2020 book, Irreversible Damage: The Transgender Craze Seducing Our Daughters. The book is focused squarely on protecting "our girls" from "ROGD/social contagion," relying heavily on the aforementioned traditionally sexist and ableist sentiments. Trans female/feminine people are largely absent from the book, with the exception of one chapter (featuring interviews with Ray Blanchard and J. Michael Bailey) that depicts us as sexually obsessed "autogynephiles." Given that chapter, in concert with the book's provocative subtitle, readers may be left with the impression that it's trans female/feminine people who are responsible for this "transgender craze seducing our daughters" (emphasis mine; other anti-trans activists have argued this more explicitly). While Shrier's book never mentions "grooming," its subtext conveys deep connections between "social contagion," the "cisgender people turned transgender" trope, and imagined sexual predation.

—Julia Serano, Whipping Girl (3rd Edition), p 380-381

this passage illustrates so clearly how even the transphobia aimed specifically at afab trans people nearly always comes with the quiet implication that there are more nefarious forces behind it. in misgendering trans people who were afab, reducing them to helpless and sympathetic victims, shrier still manages to evoke the image of the transfeminine sexual predator "grooming" these victims into identifying as transgender. she never makes this connection explicitly, but the subtext of the work leaves the reader to draw that as the only obvious conclusion. when trans women name transmisogyny as the basis for many other forms of gendered oppression, this is what we mean.

[7ouls]

im REAAAAALLY sorry for the likje longest wait ever but in the meanwhile i've wiorked on my oc too so i'll prob post abt it soon. sorry if this is short or bad but it took me a long time to get motivation to write this 😓

(this isnt proofread so if u see any mistakes dont mind them i’ll correct them tomorrow cause im too tired)

fem! reader btw

Daisuke never liked to rely too much on other people, he was always told how annoying he can be so that would make him even more of a weight than he already is.

Although he can’t complain when his girlfriend is the one who gets to take care of him. After what happened at the Tulpar you could see big changes in his attitude, he tried to smile at you but you can see that it’s not the same genuine lovely smile he used to give you in the past, when he was still on earth with you.

You were his girlfriend before he got the news from his parents about the internship and no matter how much you tried to convince him to not leave he still did, promising you that he’d come back for you. He wasn’t wrong, but this isn’t what you were expecting.

He had many scars around his body, barely able to move. He was put in a wheelchair for a few months, just until the scars have healed and he could get back in feet.

Daisuke’s parents found him a therapist, ignoring the boy’s wishes not to. Because after all he had you, you were the only one who he opened up with about what happened to all of them, about how guilty he felt for them. You were the one holding him in your arms after he cried on your shoulder for hours, you were the one changing his dirty bandages but most of all you were the one that loved him.

At nights like this you liked to wait until Daisuke was sleeping to leave him on your shared bed and go out your balcony to watch the sky filled with the city’s light, and when days were harder you took the hidden pack of cigarettes and light one up.

As you were watching the sky above your head you felt moving inside the house but didn’t think much of it, as it could be your pet just wandering around.

Your presumption turned out to be wrong as you heard your name be yelled from your bedroom, you quickly get inside to check on the voice and found your boyfriend on the floor. You run to him and slowly get him back on your bed. He pouts seeing your worried face checking for any damage.

“Are you okay? How did you get down there, most importantly why were you th-“ He stops you before you can bombard him with even more questions.

“I’m sorry Y/n, i just needed to drink something and when i saw that you weren’t here i tried to take it myself but i couldn’t...” You could see the disappointment in his eyes, you thought he might be feeling like a weight on your shoulders so you tried your best to comfort him.

“Daisuke look at me. You don’t have to apologise, it’s my fault. I should’ve been there for you but i wasn’t and i’m sorry about that. You shouldn’t force yourself to move too much, the doctors said that your body is still too fragile to sudden movements.” The boy looked at you, the mention of doctors saddened him.

“I’m so tired of these doctors, i sometimes wish you could be the one treating me instead. And the therapist girl always keeps trying to make me spill stuff, is it wrong that i don’t want to talk about it? She keeps asking about you a lot too, she might be thinking that you know more than her.”

“She wouldn’t be wrong, if it makes you feel any better i could try speaking with her.” He tiredly nodded at you and you both get back in bed, drifting off into sleep while holding him.

“Goodnight Y/n, i love you.”

IDK HOW I FEEL ABOUT THIS. i weote it in 2 hours so maybe that why its so bad and yea im so tired idek what im saying

[after-witch]

The Touch of the Velvet Hand [Platonic Yandere L x Sibling Reader]

Title: The Touch of the Velvet Hand [Platonic Yandere L x Sibling Reader]

Synopsis: You sneak out at night with Matt. How long can that last, really?

Word count: 2700ish

notes: yandere, platonic yandere, abusive sibling dynamic, reader is L's younger adult sibling, brief tickling, captivity (reader can't leave Whammy's)

Happiness is a fragile thing. It can slip through your fingers if you aren’t careful. Or it can be wrenched away violently by someone else out of pettiness or jealousy or sheer resentment. Or it might just crumble on its own, incapable of bearing the load you put upon it. 

The point being--happiness just doesn’t last. 

You know this for a fact, and you’ve known it since you can remember. Since you and your brother L would spend nights in makeshift shelters, huddled together for warmth, sharing what scraps of food you were able to find.

Since you were whisked into the world of Whammy’s, where you’re still stuck, even as an adult, kept safe and very, very fucking bored behind its walls. 

So yes, happiness, fleeting thing, had to be carved out wherever you could get it. 

You’re not sure what will take away your current bout of happiness. You’re only sure that it’s temporary, which is why you’re indulging in it full-throttle, not holding back for a moment, because God only knows when you might feel like this again.

The first night that Matt showed up in your doorway, you eyed him warily. 

 It was not the first time that one of your brother’s would-be successors came knocking at your door. 

Although that was only a figure of speech, as it was more common to find them snooping or spying or for one of them to simply waltz into your bedroom like you weren’t your own person at all. That type of presumption was fine for your real brother, but for the rest? It made you curl up your lip and ignore them.

Matt is (maybe) different. Matt has never (that you’ve seen, at least) taken notes on you. He’s never leaned snarkily against your door frame and asked you questions punctuated by pops of bubblegum or left a doll that vaguely resembles you in your doorway as either a threat or an offering and you’re not sure which would be creepier.

And so, when he showed up in your doorway, you were wary, sure. But not ready to shut him out entirely. Unless he started prying into your life or revealed some sort of ulterior motive or asked you about (God forbid) your brother.

But all he did was gruffly say, “Heads up!” before tossing something at you. You caught it, barely, hands stinging from the slap of it. 

It was a helmet.

“Huh?” You had asked, immediately feeling stupid, not for the first time within the confines of Whammy’s.

Matt had just smiled and shrugged.

“Got a new ride.  You want to check it out with me?”

Maybe it was foolish to accept. Maybe he was trying to butter you up and find out some of L’s secrets. Maybe he was just bored and you were the perfect solution.

But you said yes, anyway, because you were absolutely bored and this was entirely new. You let him grab your wrist and pull you through the hallways, let him sneak you out--suppressing breathy giggles, your heart-rate raising--and onto the street where he guided you onto the back of his motorcycle and told you to hold on as tight as you could.

You’d never gone so fast in your life. You’d never smiled so much in your life, either.

Could anyone blame you for saying yes without question when he showed up soon after, too? For primping a little before he arrived, for wearing an outfit you thought might look cool? For feeling your heart flutter when he gave you a quick little wink and said you looked nice? 

No, they couldn’t. And if they did, well. Fuck them. They weren’t stuck at an orphanage for geniuses with an internationally renowned brother that was always busy, gone, or both. 

But most people couldn’t blame you, you were sure. Most people had common sense. 

They couldn’t blame you for the breathless way you fell against your bed when he returned you home each night, cheeks ruddy from the wind, grin plastered on your face, either. Or the way that you dreamt about the nights to come, wondering if rides in the darkness, blurry lights passing you by, might turn into something more. 

He’s taking you out tonight, too. He said so. 

And it’s going to be a turning point, you just know it. Last night, Matt mentioned something about a diner--imagine that, going into a diner--he liked, and would you like to try it? Maybe you tripped a little too quickly over your yes but that’s to be expected. You hardly talk to anyone but your brother and he’s barely around, so where does that leave poor little you and your social skills? 

It doesn’t matter, because your thoughts have turned to tonight and the diner. Will it be a greasy spoon, the kind you’ve seen in movies? Will the floor be checkered and will there be milkshakes and fries and burgers dripping ketchup? If there’s a jukebox, will Matt have coins to plunk inside? Will he let you pick the music? Will you dance? Will he press himself against you, this time chest to chest instead of your chest pressed against his back, and will you lean in and kiss you? Will he be warm, will you be warmer, will things go from there? 

There’s so much to consider, thoughts racing, mind connecting the potential pathways of tonight. 

You think about them all morning, all afternoon, and into the evening.  You think about them while you’re taking a shower, taking extra care to rub on a scented lotion that you’ve rarely used before. 

The thoughts race even as you’re flipping through your closet to find something that doesn’t look like a pair of comfortable pajamas. You settle for some tighter jeans and a close-cut gray sweater. The effect is cool, casual--interested but not desperate. Or so you hope. 

The sky gets dark and that’s when you force yourself into bed, grabbing a book that you open but don’t actually read. When Matt comes, you can set it down slowly; it’ll keep you from leaping out of bed as soon as he leans against your door frame. Your eyes dart back and forth on the page, not reading the words but letting them rush over your brain like a waterfall while you wait, and wait. 

And ah, there’s the sound of someone’s knuckles gently knocking and pushing open your door--you don’t even look up, you just set the book down sweetly as you please and stand, smoothing out a wrinkle in your sweater before you look up and…

It’s not Matt in the doorway at all.

It’s L. Standing there, arms folded, resting against the door frame like his sudden appearance didn’t make your stomach drop through the floor. 

“Oh.” The word forms slowly. It feels like there’s peanut butter in your mouth and the words don’t want to get out. “Um. Hey. Is… something wrong? I thought you were working on a case.”

L blinks. 

“I am.” He looks you up and down; or rather, he looks at your distinct lack of pajamas and your carefully styled appearance.  “Where were you going?”

You shift on your feet. The look that you were coolly proud of ten minutes ago suddenly feels like it’s a traitor.

“Just uh, you know. To bed.”

He smiles, and your nerves tingle. 

“In boots?” Your toes flex inside your brown boots, carefully chosen to go with your jeans. L shuts your bedroom door behind him. “Who took you out?”

Your stomach squirms and you press your lips together. The silence is heavy and droning.

“I can check the cameras,” he says easily, “but I’d rather you just tell me.” 

You’re a little kid again, caught stealing L’s notebooks and shoving them under your pillow so he had to pay attention to you. And even if he knew exactly where you stashed them, he’d rather make you tell him and admit your guilt than do it himself. 

“Matt,” you whisper. The heat in your cheeks builds. “It’s not a big deal. We were just riding around.” But it is a big deal, you think. And you wanted more from it.

L hums. “What a strange thing to do, since you’re not allowed to leave at night. Especially if I don’t know about it.”

A scoff forces its way through your throat. “I’m not allowed to leave during the day, either.” Your lips quirk. “I’m not a child. You can’t keep me in here all the time.”

Your brother only stares at you and he doesn’t even need to say “Yes, I can” because you know he’s thinking it. And you know it’s true, too. 

It’s not fair, the way he makes you feel like you’re having a tantrum when you’re simply asserting your right to some basic freedoms.

The injustice of it all slithers down your arms, building in your fists as you clench them tightly at your sides. “I’m sick of being here all the time. It’s like I’m in a fucking… ant farm! Or a doll house!” 

Without an invitation, L pulls out your desk chair and takes a seat. He leans forward and you find yourself standing up straighter, refusing the implicit invitation to get on his level. 

“So. What would you like to do?” He asks. The softness in his voice is a contrast against your own rising anger, the unbearable tightness of your throat.

“I don’t know,” you say, half-spitting. “Go outside.” Thoughts of a vague future rush through you like the wind past Matt’s motorcycle. “Get an apartment, live on my own.” 

L nods. “How would you pay your rent?”

Your lip quirks. “I’d get a job.”

He nods again, and his eyes half-close, like he’s genuinely thinking about your responses. 

“I see. What kind of job?”

You swallow, throat tight, and shift your legs. The boots aren’t terribly comfortable, are they? “I-I don’t know.” You cross your arms. “A waitress or something--something like that.”

L leans back and rests his elbow on your desk, watching you with his chin in his hand.

“You couldn’t afford rent on a waitress’s wages.” He glances down at your legs and feet, already tired from standing for a little while. “And you know that you can’t be on your feet all day.” Something in your chest stings and you back up, unwittingly resting your backside against the bed and sitting down.

“I’ll go to college and be something else, then,” you whisper. “I’ll get paid more money.”

L only looks at you and tilts his head a little. “You can get a college education here, if that’s what you want.” 

“No!” Your fists clench against your blanket. “It’s not the same. You know it’s not. I’d be able to make friends. And meet new people and do things and not be stuck in the same place every fucking day.”

You’ve never made concrete plans for such a future, but the vague notions of it, the idea of meeting people in a coffee shop and having inside jokes and making plans to get drinks after work, all picked up from movies and books, have stuck like taffy in your head.

L waits a few moments before he speaks up. It makes you hate how sensible he seems. “You’re kept in the same place because it’s safer. It’s my job to take care of you, isn’t it?”

That’s when your voice cracks, and when the tears finally threaten to make an appearance. “But you’re not the one taking care of me, are you? You’re barely here.” Hot tears prick at your eyes and fall too easily, and you hate them and hate yourself for being so pent-up, so emotional. So weak.

And just like that, the stand-off, pitiful as it was, is finished and L is up and over, sitting down on your bed and pulling you close to him. Familiar scent, familiar softness. Familiar hands. How many years has he held you like this? When you had nightmares. When you wanted mom and dad and they were dead. When you were scared of being at Whammy’s, scared of the people there, scared of the fact that you were only there because of who your brother was. And everyone knew it, too.

“I take care of you even when I’m not here,” he says softly.

You scoff, tears choking your throat. 

His grip on you tightens. 

“I mean it. I can’t protect you if there are too many unknown factors at play. Staying here is the best way to reduce them. I can’t be with you as often as you like, but that can’t be helped.” He relents enough for you to pull away, to show him the tears on your face, that he dutifully wipes with his knuckles, even as he adds a bit of mirth to his voice. “You were stuck with a genius brother, I’m afraid.” 

When your lips tremble, he sighs.

“I don’t want you to get hurt. And this is the safest option.”

It’s too hard to hate him and hate your life for too long. Resentment and bitterness aren’t fleeting, but they’re awful companions. 

You smile, just a little, through your sniffles. “Oh, like you haven’t hurt me before, L.”

He pulls one of his arms from around your back just so he can flick you on the forehead. “Beating you at wrestling is vastly different than putting your life at risk.” 

You wipe at your nose, brushing away a hint of snot and some of the heaviness in your chest. “You only beat me because I was little.” You sniff. “I could take you now.”

His eyebrows quirk up, and your chest flutters a little--this was a feeling you remembered from when you were younger, a feeling that became harder to come by as the years went on. Sibling silliness. Joking. Fun. “Could you?” He asks, tone rising in a way that eased the tightness in your throat.

You meet his raised eyebrows with a determined look. And there is that moment between you, a moment when you are anticipating each other’s moves. But before you can wrap your arms around his shoulder and attempt a tackle, he moves--much faster than most would give him credit for, given his general lackadaisical vibe--and there are two thumbs digging into your sides.

It’s a horribly ticklish sensation, just bordering on painful, as he digs his thumbs underneath your ribs. 

“You’re a fucking--cheater!” You manage between short laughs as he begins to twist his thumbs. Thankfully, your arms are free, and you grab one of your pillows and whack him in the head until he stops and gets off your bed.

You’re catching your breath as he kneels down. You don’t know what he’s doing at first until he’s got your leg in his grip, and begins to slide off your boots. You bite the inside of your cheek, but stay limp as he pulls them off, one at a time, and sets them on the side of the bed. 

You half-expect him to go into your dresser and pull out pajamas, but instead he eyes the pillow you set next to you and straightens up. 

“Give up on your pillow assault so soon?” He asks, a smile on his lips. He raises his hands and moves his fingers. “Or should I keep going?” 

You pout, and cling to one of your pillows. “Fine.” Your grip tightens and your feet feel lighter without your boots on. “I give up. Cheater.”

He snorts, and walks back to lean against the wall next to your door. There’s that heavy silence again, but now you know exactly how the rest of the night will go and it hurts more. 

“You’re not going out with Matt again.” It’s not a question. Not a bargain. Just a simple fact.

Your chest hurts and hugging the pillow doesn’t help, but you do it anyway. You should have known this was coming--happiness never stays, and all that. Nothing you said or did was going to change L’s mind on this or make your nights with Matt last longer than they did.

“Will you tell him?” You sound like a mouse. You feel like one, too, under your brother’s stare, on this bed, in this room, in this house. 

He smiles.

“Sure.”

It’s a small mercy. If L didn’t love you, you’re sure he wouldn’t give it. 

[genderkoolaid]

The question to ask at this point is “why?” Why pick on butches and FTMs when, as visibly marked “deviant” bodies, they clearly had less access to social and economic privilege than someone who might enjoy the fragile protections of the closet, or of heterosexual presumption? Why would butch masculinity or FTM masculinity be threatening to lesbian feminism? I would suggest that part of the answer (the part that is not simply transphobic) has to do with the political goals of lesbian feminism. As an identity politics movement, one that attempts to represent (to speak for) lesbians and women, lesbian feminism necessarily relies on what Janet Halley calls “coherentist assumptions” in order to articulate the political interests of the group. Coherentist assumptions, for Halley, do more than describe the shared traits of a core constituency; rather, they construct the shared traits that will count as the markers of identity, and distinguish the qualities that will count as ‘false consciousness,’ or betrayals of the core constituency. That is, coherentist assumptions work to interpellate subjects “from below, from within resistant social movements.” Butches and FTMs resist their interpellation as “women” from above–that is, from dominant cultural formations–as well as from below, from the subcultural formation of lesbian feminism. They therefore call into question the coherentist assumptions of lesbian feminism and are cast as betrayers of the “imagined community” lesbian feminism represents.

— Challenging Lesbian Norms: Intersex, Transgender, Intersectional, and Queer Perspectives by Angela Pattatucci-Aragon

[esther-dot]

oh and I hope you don't mind (we can share my mood) 11k by @thkingslayer

“You make presumptions, your highness.” “I do not. I know how unwanted I am by you, Lady Sansa.” Her mouth opens as she struggles to find the words to tell him it isn’t true. She’s a lady. She would be nice if he would. She just wants— She just wants— -- When the king travels north, Sansa takes an immediate liking to Prince Aegon. She does not, however, want anything to do with her cousin Prince Jon—the brooding, dark haired, younger brother. She's quite sure he does not want anything to do with her also. And by the Old Gods and the New, she will not let him ruin her mood.

Dawn 19k

Like her mother before her, Sansa will do her duty. She will marry a man who is practically a stranger, mere days before he sets off for war.

All That Glitters 3k by @rumaan

Sansa is annoyed she has to give up a day with Prince Aegon to show his boring younger brother around Winterfell. Some alone time with Prince Jon makes her re-evaluate her opinion.

Sapphires and Salt 9k by @wendynerdwrites

The Princess to be is jilted, the unwanted prince rises

Salty Teens one, two, three by @blackholeofprocrastination

Sansa bursts into his solar in a swirl of skirts, her precious courtesies forgotten. Jon remains seated behind his desk, earning a scowl from his lady wife.  “What did you say to Jeyne?” she demands. “Nothing.”  It’s not entirely true, but he is still too furious to be cowed in his own damn solar.

Learning to fight, learning to Dance 1k by @myrish-lace-love

Lyanna Stark survives, and Jon and Aegon are half-brothers. Jon is in a hastily arranged marriage with Sansa Stark. They get on each other's nerves constantly during the day, but their nights are a different matter.

What a Disappointment 7k by @justadram

Sansa Stark and Jon Targaryen are married and neither of them is pleased about it. Set in a world where Rhaegar lives and Jon was raised in King's Landing as a legitimized bastard.

lights still shining in the room, you left me here 11k

Perhaps at one point, her marriage to Jon had become less of a sham. But with a history of three dead children between them, even the strongest of unions would break, let alone one as fragile as theirs. When Sansa tries to save herself, her actions lead to some interesting revelations.

Made New 3k

Sansa does not get the wedding night that she longed for and has to fix it

Tell the Ones That Need to know (We Are Headed North) 10k by @vixleonard

After years of confinement in the Red Keep with Ned prisoner in the black cells, the Dragon Queen comes. With the knowledge that Jon Snow is actually a Targaryen, she agrees to let the Starks return to Winterfell only if Jon marries one of the Stark daughters. Sansa volunteers so they can all go home. Soon she figures out being married to Jon isn't bad but it is complicated.

half a kingdom and a princess 2k by @misshoneywheeler

“Guess you’re stuck with me, old girl.” Old girl. He’s never called her that before. He’s never called her anything but Sansa and my lady, or sometimes Lady Stark, a title that gives them both discomfort as Lady Stark is still Sansa’s mother to each of them. Something in Sansa thrills at the strange endearment, though she should – and may – protest at being called such a thing. There’s just something so familiar in the words, in Jon’s soft affection as he says them. Something intimate and real.

A Convenient Inconvenience 4k

Once Daenerys takes the Iron Throne she knows the battle is only half over. Now that she has the throne she must keep it. Since she cannot have heirs of her own she names her new half-brother, the former Jon Snow, now Jon Targaryen, the Crown Prince. And a prince needs a princess which is where Sansa Stark comes in. The pair marry yet it takes months for Jon to realize that Sansa thinks of their relationship as more than just a duty.

PRE CANON - WESTERN - FAIRYTALE - REGENCY - LITTLE WOMEN - HOLIDAY - SEASON SIX - ANNE OF GREEN GABLES - THE GIRL IN GREY - FREE CITIES - FAIRYTALE PART II - POLITICAL MARRIAGE - POST CANON

[emmaofnormandy]

~A Medieval Tale: The Rogue & His Lady. Part I~

Plot: Y/N is a damsel who captures the heart of a rogue, misunderstood prince named Aegon Targaryen in 14th century England… with no civil war to disarray the family.

It’s fluffy, very mediæval like; smut; long post.

(+21)

***

The bells are heard. The sound echoes through the county, reaching the ears of high and low born alike. It indicates that another part of the day comes with other demands to attend.

You are occupied this first part of morning, busied hands using the needle skillfully. You are followed by your mistress’s other ladies, for the task given is about producing a tapestry. The scene chosen to be sewed usually is biblical, but the princess of Wales is too fond of Greek allegories to let them be prevailed over by her piety.

It’s all about a story concerning a damsel of pure heart who captivated the heart of Apollo. He struggles to conquer her, as far as you know it—which you don’t know much, preferring chansons and sweeter stories to old “pagan” ones.

“My ladies, we are required at court”, the voice of your mistress breaks the pleasant silence that has been helpful in the work. Lady Rhaenyra is dressed in her usual clothes, lately preferring black robes in opposition to the Queen’s green ones.

“There is a lavishing meal to be offered by the king, my father. Dress yourselves the best for we expect my husband and our children to return from the hunting trip.”

You quickly stand, prompted to do as told. Quiet and introspective, you are overshadowed by the usual bubbly and chatty ladies, whom you judge to be far prettier—and snobbish to be around.

Discreetly you part of the others, preferring the way that leads to the gardens. It’s when you and him cross paths first.

Aegon is the king’s second son, treated as the presumptive heir by many in spite of His Grace’s evident preference over Rhaenyra. Often overshadowed by his siblings’s gifted minds and brilliant sword skills—as is the case of both Aemond and Daeron—, this prince found solace in wayward manners overlooked by the court.

However, out of people’s sight—and mind—, he is a fragile, broken prided man. Aware of his flaws, Aegon is lost in thought, not really preoccupied in masking his lostness underneath arrogance when he bumps into you.

“I am sorry, lord…!”, your words die by half an agony when seeing whom you collided to.

The prince is about to retort something, irritated by what he judges as being caught off his guard, when he looks at you. A lustful man, drowned in the darkness of his heart and slaved by his flesh desires, he suddenly feels the weight of his sins just by looking at you.

Your wide-eyed gaze, your red lips that form in a small “o”, the shyness behind your delicate features… signs of a sweet tempered soul. A rogue he is, but Aegon is a poet when he is not too occupied being someone everyone expects him to be.

Your y/c curls that are partly loose in rebel-ish locks that run free like a cascade behind your back, reinforce your heart-shaped face, matching the y/c that paints your eyes.

So mesmerized, like struck by the arrow of an invisible Cupid���oh, winged being! Shall thou be the one to receive the blame for this another misfortune that befalls my fate?!— he forgets his own selfishness.

“Lady”, his voice comes out unusually dusky, carried out by a different sort of embargo.

You, hardly before a royal company who is not the mistress you serve—albeit discreetly so—, too are affected by this intense and disruptive encounter.

To stand before a Targaryen prince equals to stand tall before a living dragon. You are afraid of the fire, even though part of you is led to wonder what would be like to be burnt by it—a sinful thought you are quickly to dismiss, though.

“Lord”, you lower your eyes down to the floor and, recalling manners, dip to a curtsy.

Your heart is troubled by this view, this singular captivating instant where destiny seems to play with one another. Thus you wish to disappear, trying to get your steps moving you out of the way.

But someone like you must not be lost out of his sight. Softening, Aegon says:

“I apologize if I scared my lady. Never before I saw such a handsome creature of your sex.”

You lift your gaze, carefully checking your emotions.

“I fear to doubt the sincerity of your words, lord. Nonetheless, you find in me with honest gratitude for an unworthy praise.”

“Unworthy praise?”, there is a shadow of smile playing in the prince’s lips and you suddenly remember his bad reputation—so to preserve yours, you begin to walk away, but to your dismay he follows. “I believe many poets have described your beauty, Madame. Your gracious moves, your cascade locks and your y/c eyes are unmatched!”

Rather unaccustomed to be praised like this, you think wise to stop this before it goes to a path where there is no going back. Thus you sigh heavily and, retracing your steps back inside the castle, you say:

“Lord, I ask you to save your praises to someone of your station. Little I am in comparison to a prince like you. Leave me be, this I ask. And forget my existence.”

Aegon is left thus annoyed, almost angry, by a rejection that never before occurred. But if you think that by preserving your heart of his misdemeanors, you’d soon know how wrong you were…

After all, the Cupid had other intentions where you and the rogue prince are concerned…

***

The following day he finds you again. Here’s the scene he sees through his eyes: a damsel of long y/c locks in blue, long sleeved silk gown twirling and dancing merrily with her lady companions. She seems oblivious to the attention her presence attracts and this itself inspires a new sensation of despair in this prince who is used to have it all.

According to hierarchy, a prince like Aegon should court and espouse his womanly counterpart. But where men know rules, what is to say concerning their hearts and desires?

Somehow, his overconfidence breaks him. Aegon is more than acutely aware of the glances bolder ladies cast him—some of them even married by now. But you? Too busy dancing, smiling merrily as if bumping to the kingdom’s next king was a random encounter designed by fate.

Aemond, seeing the melancholy his brother is, takes no more than few moments to realize the cause and says:

“You’ve had women in your bed before. Why is this one an obstacle for you?”

“She is not like any other, Aemond.”

“Certainly far less wench like”, says the other slyly.

Aegon shoots his brother a glare.

“She is anything but worthy a comparison as this, Aemond.”

“Then pursuit her already”, Aemond retorts, not inclined to these courtly games. “What’s there to lose?”

“My dignity”, he grumbles, detesting his fragility.

Aemond doesn’t bother responding the drama. He shrugs his shoulders, occupying himself with his secret liaison as their sister Helaena casually passes by, giving the prince a long, meaningful look.

***

At the gardens, the prince is after his damsel once more. This time, he hopes to look far less obnoxious than before. He is determined to have you by every means—even if doing so requires reason to acknowledge some spell cast on him to humble this proud lord.

Here he is. Ready for a chase.

And here you are. Prompted to be chased.

‘Tis all fair in the game of love, is it not?

“Lord Aegon”, you cry out before the sight of the handsomest man you’ve ever laid your eyes on, even if he’s the devil himself. “My prince!”

“‘Tis I who should bend my knee before my lady, not otherwise”, says the king to be, quickly helping you stand.

One touch is enough to electrify both parts, with neither knowing what to do.

“I know naught about my lady”, whispers he, thirsty for you.

And you cannot withdraw of his presence, because it burns too much and it feels good to burn this bright.

“My name is Y/N”, you give in partly.

Because his eyes are locked with yours, the purple there is in his irises seemingly holding the color that paints yours—as if pressing you against the wall is the solution to denude the soul you refuse to give.

But Gods be cruel. You want him too.

“Lady Y/N”, you’d think he smiles because he gets what he wants and is soon leaving you, but what do you know, sweet child of summer? “I am Aegon. But my friends call me Egg. May I have the honor to get to know you?”

That sharp side of yours is ready to rebel. Your reasonable self recollects his scandals, prompted to riot. But when you dive in these purple eyes… every resistance dies.

So this is how defeated your pride is.

“Aye, lord. Though I do not think I am interesting to a prince such as you.”

“Allow me to disagree, my dear.”

Locking arms with him never seemed so sinful. And yet here you two are, finally in harmony.

“Here we are”, you smile at him. “Shouldn’t you be elsewhere? Perhaps with your wenches?”

Aegon snorts at your sharp tongue. Indeed, sharp as a blade, under which he would gladly let in his skin crave.

“Nay. They interest me naught”, and when gazing at you this broken king feels whole.

Indeed, it all indicates that this could not have been arranged by other than a divine being. Never before this attraction crossed the limits of the flesh and soul.

Aegon has no explanation for reason cannot conceive why you have messed up with him. And you two barely met.

“Do you like poetry?”

He asks.

And it all begins with this.

One simple question.

Your heart skips a beat. Your lips pull out a smile.

“Aye, lord. I do.”

This is how it begins.

***

The chase must follow the typical etiquette: poems here, poems there, no matter the longing, the lord must be after his lady in between court sessions, gardens plays and theatrical dancings.

No one seems to think this is going truthfully far more than a mere court love fare.

“A day without the sight of you is a divine punishment”, says the besotted Aegon, surprisingly tamed by your sweet temperance. “It pains me physically to be distant of you.”

You two are underneath this pomerade this day. It’s sunny and cloudless. The scenario is ilidic, dreamy like. With none to trouble the peace of this day, you count the Gods as your witnesses.

In the summer breeze, you dress in the colors of autumn, embellished with the jewels he gifted you.

Leaning your head against his shoulder, you drown in his words, paradoxically warmed in this sinful contact against his protective body, locked in his arms.

“You tend to exaggerate the words, my dearest”.

“Hardly exaggerated these are when they truthfully express how I feel towards my lady. Imperfect I may be, but not the love you inspire me.”

You turn lightly at him. The tenderness in his gaze is genuine and it makes you beam. Seeing the delight in you inspires Aegon likewise.

For the very first time there is peace within and when he kisses you, serenity is exhaled.

But it only lasts briefly. For soon passion ignites and his old self comes to surface—albeit in a different manner than before, not the rogue he used to be.

However, temptation comes, sinfully so. Where is, one might wonder, the resistance of conscience? Nowhere to be found, for sure.

You want more and so does he. Though inexperienced, you move to his lap, striding over him, moved by a strange instinct never before known that now takes the reins of you.

Aegon smirks at the urgency with which you now kiss him, leaving aside decency and prudence. His hands take the opportunity to play with your braid, resting thus in your hips all the whilst his lips follow the rhythm dictated by yours.

Your hands are now wrapped around his neck, your fingers hesitantly play with his short locks. Decorum is not in your mind when these move impatiently to his chest and before he knows…

“Oh!” Aegon throws his head back, eyeing you with a mix of pleasant surprise and lust.

But something about his “oh” confuses you. And you stop what you are doing.

“Why’d you stop, dear Y/Nickname?”, he inquires when seeing the deep shade of pink that colors your cheeks.

You lower your gaze, noticing the unlaced pants that are nearly showing his manhood. Your blush deepens.

“I’ve never done this before.”

Aegon blushes too. Has this courtly love gone too far? The prince fears the answer.

“I lament that it has caused you embarrassment of any kind”, he rests his chin over your shoulder, trying to read your composed face.

“This is not about embarrassment, my love. You should be properly praised. Come here.”

Saying so, Aegon helps you laying down in the grass. He soon follows, on his elbows by your side. You giggle softly, blushing to be under his intent gaze, but every smile dies when his lips touch yours, barely brushing before moving to your jawline and neck.

When his tongue moves to your neck, this prince is soon eagerly showing his devotion to you. He wants to make this memorable—even if this isn’t about consuming the aching passion that burns in each of you.

You sigh heavily, playing with his silver locks all the whilst his tongue takes his time against your neck. Only then his right hand moves to your chest, brushing his fingers over your nipples quickly—much to your dismay, for this new discovered feeling, sinful as it is, makes you want to explore it further. How to voice it, though?

The confusion that is your mind is solved when his hand is now lifting gently the skirt of your gown.

“Very bold of you, Egg”, you admonish him in a playful tone, short breath cut the moment he rests his hand over your womanhood.

When Aegon lifts his head to meet your gaze, his hair dropping over his forehead giving thus a sensual look, you feel already dropping wet.

“Should I stop, milady?”, he side smirks, perceiving what is not being said by your red-ish lips, but so clear behind your y/c eyes.

Your blush is the answer he needs. Aegon chuckles, before pecking your lips.

“If we best not engage in this intercourse, voice me your denial and I shall respect it”, he vows it.

You, however, meek by nature—and sinful, if taken in consideration the words of the clergy—find too much tied to this experience to refuse him.

In other words, it’s to say you want him.

Badly so.

As if this prince is capable of reading your thoughts, Aegon chuckles quietly. He dives in your lips, slowly kissing you, letting your tongues intertwine perfectly.

But he wants to see you. He anxiously wants to see the effect he has on you.

And here you are. Right under his command, experiencing new experiences, you burn the dragon fire.

“Oh!”, your eyes are barely open, eyelashes fluttering as bliss opens pave to Heaven.

Aegon too is aroused when finally having a taste of you. Knowing too that he’s giving this to you only makes his bone ache. But it’s about you, his lady. The one woman who made possible his redemption.

By the time you are arching your back, sounds resulting from this pleasurable intimacy, he comes to your aid like the dreamy knight he’s become.

One kiss is enough to seal this spiritual vow you and him now exchange.

But a question is yet to be answered… What will be of the two of you?

(To be continue)

[lydiaxxxxx]

I find it worrying how fine so many people seem to be with benevolent sexism.

I've been talking to a lot of American women especially and I've noticed that a lot of them seem to not only accept, but often actively look for men who view them as dainty and fragile etc and act accordingly. They seem to (maybe implicitly) view themselves this way and thus want men who are "protectors" and "providers". They want "chivalry", they want for men to open doors for them and to pay for dates. It seems harmless and maybe even advantageous, but it in reality it is so dangerous.

I can see how, especially if you are culturally used to these expectations, you might at first think that it's a good thing that men do these things for women or maybe even that women deserve these things as compensation for oppression or something, but when you think about it for even a little bit, how is it not clear that this is a crucial part of upholding that very oppression? These ideas are founded on the underlying presumption of female inferiority and incompetence, and they actively reinforce it.

A lot of the time these women acknowledge that we live in a patriarchy, but have still somehow convinced themselves that paternalistic and patronizing "special treatment" of women is a good thing. It reminds me of the protectionists' opposition to the removal of legal disabilities for women because they believed them to benefit and protect us. The master's tools will never dismantle the master's house and whatever; holding onto supposedly beneficial ideas and customs that stem from misogyny is not and never will be in women's best interest.

I've heard people say things like "it's about what the patriarchy can do for you" and expressing the sentiment of wanting to "benefit" from the patriarchy by receiving this treatment. It is so baffling to me that people seemingly can't see how benevolent and hostile sexism are two sides of the same coin, they complement and help uphold each other. A man who sees you as delicate and dainty sees you as submissive and inferior. He sees "helping" you as a demonstration of his superiority over you. He sees paying for your meals and buying you flowers as a way of compensating you for making yourself his domestic servant. A "chivalrous" man will expect subordination and servitude from you in return.

Benevolent sexism is an indicator of a misogynistic worldview and traditional values, it is so so dangerous to view it as a positive sign and something to look for.

[ryuzakemo128]

Björn Ironside x reader : "I don't ask for your understanding, I don't ask for your trust either and quite frankly I do not want either one from you."

Please and thank you💙

I hope you like this and fits with what you might want.

Tarnished and Unveiled Intentions

Pairing: Bjorn Ironside x reader

Genre: Angst

Requested? Yes

Prompt: "I don't ask for your understanding, I don't ask for your trust either and quite frankly I do not want either one from you."

Content Warning: Possible mention of death, illness, disorders and disease. If any of these topics trigger or make you feel a certain way. I urge you to click off and preserve your mental health. As it's important to care for your mental health as well as your physical health.

You were unwell, bedridden for months, your fragile body refusing to move. Refused to obey. "[Y/N]" Bjorn said, his voice both harsh and commanding. He was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. It was as if he expected you to have told him about this before. As if he expected you to reveal everything to him when he wanted you to. Your lips curled into a snarl, a silent rebellion against him as your anger continued to boil beneath the surface, 'How can he assume he knows anything by demanding it when he wants it? You thought.

"I would have told you before, but I couldn't. I don't expect you to understand what I'm going through." You told him. Your voice was hoarse and strained. His entitlement, his entitled behaviour continued to annoy you. Even now.

You wanted to lash out, but your bones. Heavy as lead would not let you. You wanted to shout at him. But you couldn't find the words, they got caught on your tongue and stuck in your throat. The words between you and him remained unspoken.

His assumption that you would be fine this winter, that you would be able to go out there without any possible injury or illness. His presumption almost killed you, his presumptuous behaviour made you sick and injured. Sometimes almost dead.

His words, his tone, his expectations, his assumptions, they were all so disrespectful. He never once considered your feelings, your safety, your well-being. He treated you as if you were nothing more than a tool at his disposal, something to be taken for granted, something to be discarded when it no longer served his purpose. At least that was how you felt, and how you assumed he felt about you.

But that was not who you were. You were not just a servant or a housekeeper. You were a person with feelings, with a life of your own, with dreams and aspirations. And you deserved to be treated with respect and dignity. This relationship was a sinking ship, and you didn't want to stay on it. Not for another second, not for another day, and certainly not for the rest of your life. It was time to jump ship, to swim to safety, to find your way back to the shore where you belonged. You owed it to yourself. To your future.

"I don't ask for your understanding, I don't ask for your trust either and quite frankly I do not want either one from you." You said to him. A bitter taste remaining on the tip of your tongue.

He didn't protest, didn't argue and he just left you there. Alone. Both bedridden and close to death.

Link: [Divider]

Link: [Header]

Links: [Masterlist 01 / Masterlist 02]

Link: [Vikings Masterlist/ Prompt List]

[thedeafprophet]

I think motherhood and being a parent in General can be a really important thing to explore with female characters. I think its the presumption from soceity of it being a Baseline and Passive role that just expected of women that in turn leads to people dumbing down the concept in media, or worse, puting all female characters into a 'motherly' role

How a character reacts to those expectations, how a character feels towards a child, how past experiences and trauma can influence responses to ones family, the way its inherently anixetiy inducing to care for something so fragile, etc. etc. theres so much to explored there, rather as just a 'oh yea that character is a woman so obviously she's A Mother:tm:"

[bestworstcase]

do you have theories about how the aura transfer machine is going to inevitably come into play

this is timely, because i’ve been chewing on it quite a lot lately.

let’s talk about the rule of threes!

the basic idea is that important things in stories often come in threes. narrative triads are a staple of fairytale/folklore in particular, which makes it very salient to the rwby narrative. often, you’ll see the rule of three described as a pattern where a thing happens a certain way twice, and then once more differently (aab); there are other configurations. abc/cba or abc/abc is pretty common in fairytales—think the “questing hero does a kindness to three entities and each repays with a favor later on” structure—and simple repetitions (aaa) or progressive triplets (a-A-A!) aren’t uncommon either.

the rule of threes gets cited a lot in discussions on the maidens and the ATMs in particular. this is a little thorny because maidens come in fours, not threes; i think rwby is taking advantage of this mathematical problem to develop multiple interlocking triads. we’ll call this the Fourth Maiden Exclusion Principle. 

our first set of triads occur within each season. the seasonal triads, if you will. all of them—so far—follow this basic pattern:

fragile -> false -> freed

where the first maiden is introduced in a vulnerable state, the second maiden is either literally false (not really a maiden) or perceived as illegitimate, and the seasonal arc ends with third maiden removed from ozpin’s hierarchy and separated from her vault. thus:

amber -> pyrrha -> cinder

(spring) -> vernal -> raven

fria -> penny -> winter

the last spring maiden is unusual in that she’s a posthumous character, but she’s described as having been “a child” who ran away because the responsibility was “too much for her” and raven says she was “weak” and “scared.” we also know that raven mercy-killed her.

so the question to ask here is whether the summer maiden will repeat this pattern. if i’m correct about the Fourth Maiden Exclusion Principle, the answer is “no.” our triad is [fall-spring-winter] and our excluded fourth, in this case, is summer. 

[SIDEBAR: the maiden arcs are following the gifts in reverse order (choice -> knowledge -> creation -> destruction). the seasons being “wrong” is a misdirection. thank u.]

our second set of triads interlace the maiden arcs. we’ll call them the perennial triads (laugh!). there are three Big Ones. 

the first is the presumptive ATM triad, which might be drawn in two ways: 

[amber-fria-(summer)] + (spring) 

or

[pyrrha-winter-(summer)] + raven.

the former being three maidens fed to the machines, the latter recipients of machine transfers. the triad is [fall-winter-summer] and the excluded fourth is spring.

the second is the triad of maidens cinder tries to Get. i will discuss my reasoning for bracketing it like this in a bit, bear with me:

[amber-raven-penny] + (summer)

and finally, the third is the triad of maidens who got eaten by the fairytale, as it were:

[pyrrha-(spring)-penny] + (summer)

note that these last two match the seasonal triad-of-triads: [fall-spring-winter] + summer. This Is Important.

but before we get into the weeds of the Machine Question, we first need to sketch out why i don’t think cinder is going to go after the summer maiden. for the benefit of newcomers and in case this breaks containment, Mainly. it boils down to:

salem’s going to beacon next.

it is established in V4 that a) the crown is still in its vault, b) salem believes the vault is at beacon, c) the vault is Hidden, and d) salem has someone [summer rose] stationed at beacon to search for it. in V8, salem notes that The Situation Has Not Changed; she is preoccupied with gaining access to the lamp so that she can use it to discover the crown’s location. (<- the first thing she asks oscar is where ozma hid the crown; she asks for the password to the lamp only after confirming that oscar doesn’t know.) having been frustrated in her effort to wring the location out of oscar and with the lamp now out of questions, her obvious next move is to go to beacon.

she is also two for two on relics swiped after someone else—not cinder—opened the vault, and two for two on cinder Almost Fucking Dying at the hands of other maidens. she’s realizing that her opponents will open those vaults if she squeezes them hard enough, and the sword presents an obvious temptation for vacuo’s defenders; she also won’t be able to access the crown at all if cinder dies. the skeleton-key plan is a wash.

and, with the coalition in vacuo galvanized by the imminent existential threat of another massive attack, the strongest next move for salem is to do nothing: quietly go to beacon, search for the crown, and run out the clock while her opponents wait. the longer she can draw this out, the shakier that coalition is going to get as people get complacent or start to doubt that an attack is coming at all. 

(it is also something of a toss-up whether salem plans to launch another assault; she hit beacon and atlas with overwhelming force to take ozpin off the board, but for haven she planned a covert infiltration.)

so salem has a lot of compelling reasons for going to beacon, and none for rushing to vacuo. further, the end of V9, the epilogue storyboard, and the second rwby x jl film collectively indicate that at a minimum, salem will not be in vacuo at the top of V10. a V7ish scenario where salem doesn’t arrive until the end of the volume is not out of the question (although i do think she’ll be in V10, just at beacon). 

and she will, of course, want to keep cinder close, both for the purpose of opening the beacon vault and because she will need to manage cinder’s ongoing rebellion very carefully. cinder may not Like This, but a) she she swanned away from the winter maiden without a backwards glance because she Doesn’t Care About The Power That Much, she just wants to Win The Power Struggle With Salem, and b) the vault and the relic of choice and being The Only One Who Can Do This are going to appeal to her too, again for power struggle reasons.

and since the skeleton key plan is a wash, it’s likely that salem will try to ease cinder off the idea of Getting the summer maiden so as to avoid risking a repeat of what happened in atlas. that, plus the nascent villain->hero arc developments involved in returning to the choice arc, taper cinder off the maiden hunting such that i do not think she’s going to be a central player in the summer maiden arc. (or obsessed with winter, for that matter.)

the summer maiden arc, sans cinder

okay. here we go!

in order for the ATM triad to eventuate, as i believe it will, someone in vacuo is going to need a reason to pull that trigger. at beacon and in atlas, the reason was cinder. cinder is also the reason both of those transfers failed. because cinder is probably Not In Vacuo, the ATM triad is almost certainly the a-a-b pattern; the negated pair both failed because cinder deliberately provoked them for the purpose of gaining access to the maiden, so i think the likely reversal here is that a machine transfer initiated in a non-crisis situation will succeed. 

this is a puzzle, because the ATMs are unequivocally Not Good. every single character in the story is on the same page about this; even ironwood regards it as a necessary evil. there is an asterisk here for pietro because the only person harmed by his use of the machines is himself and he made the choice freely. but in any other circumstance, using the ATM is wrong, because That’s Murder. so the decision to use an ATM in vacuo to transfer a maiden is not one that can be made lightly.

thus we have to consider what circumstances could lead to that decision, and to do that we need to zoom out a little.

let’s assume the CFVY novels are both canonical and relevant to the narrative of the show proper, as RH was to V9.

i submit that there are two (2) possible summer maidens hinted at in before the dawn. one of them is sun’s cousin, starr sanzang, who appears briefly at the end of the book and has an “uncanny sense” for the weather.

the other is gillian asturias.

she and her twin brother, jax, are the leaders of a virulently xenophobic nationalist movement called the crown; they believe themselves to be direct descendants of the defunct vacuan monarchy, all the way back to malik the sunderer, first king of vacuo. their “evidence” (such as it is) is a crown-shaped birthmark supposed to be had by every member of the royal lineage. gill’s, however, is actually a brand,implied to have been done to her by her father when she was an infant.

gill is the power behind the crown. her semblance siphons aura; in the novel, she uses captives as batteries to make herself virtually invincible. on the battlefield, she glows with a brilliant iridescent light—brighter than the moon. 

their mother—luna asturias—developed some sort of sickness during pregnancy that caused her aura to rapidly deplete and gradually waste away; she died due to complications during an emergency c-section. jax was born with the same condition; gillian’s aura was “elevated” from birth. their father believes that her semblance manifested before she was even born and ate her mother’s and brother’s auras. 

right before the climactic battle, there is a brief skirmish with gill and her lieutenant, carmine, in an abandoned dust mine, which ends with the kids deliberately triggering a cave-in by blowing up a vein of dust. this is the result:

“Did it work?” she asked Octavia. Octavia shook her head. “I think we got Carmine, but just before everything came down on our heads, Gill flew backward and out of the cave.” “Carmine’s telekinesis,” Velvet said. “She used it to save her friend at the last second.”

then, during the actual battle:

He heard gunfire and then Dust bullets exploded against Gill, amped by Coco’s Semblance. Gill stepped back, swatting at her face as though the explosive rounds were no more annoying than bugs.

if you wanted to hide a maiden in plain sight in a canonical ancillary novel, this is how you to do it. 

gillian is extraordinarily powerful. flying, being surrounded by visibly glowing haloes, and banishing bullets with the flick of a hand are all Maiden Things—and also Gillian Things carefully given plausible deniability through the eyes of POV characters who don’t know about the maidens and interpret what they see as effects of a semblance. 

gillian herself is stridently opposed to the use of dust for reasons; if she is a maiden, she has compelling political and ideological reasons not to use the dust-like elemental magic that comes with being a maiden. if she started lobbing fireballs, everyone would assume she was using dust to do it, and that would make her look like a raging hypocrite. but covertly using magic to augment what she can do with fifty people’s aura? sure.

and the summer maiden is the maiden of destruction. the asturias family identity revolves around descent from a man named malik the sunderer. her fanatic of a father BRANDED HER with the mark of this legacy as an infant. her dead mother who sickened and died in childbirth is named for the moon. 

when ozma ended the great war, he did it in vacuo, the crown on his head and the sword in hand. jax asturias is the leader of the crown, the twin with the real birthmark, the mind of the operation. gill is the power—very literally the source of his strength, because she lends him some of her own aura, and metaphorically his shield and his sword.

and furthermore, the lesson taught by the summer maiden in the fairytale is “don’t view the world at a distance; take an active part in it and the events around you.” gill’s backstory very closely mirrors salem’s in one key way—their mothers die in childbirth, and their fathers see them as the cause—BUT. where salem’s father locked her in a tower about it, finn asturias  chose differently:

“[Gill’s semblance] had caused us so much pain, but I couldn’t blame her, an unborn baby, doing what we all do: trying to survive. Over the years, I taught her to control her Semblance, and over time we unlocked her true ability—she doesn’t just sap Aura from others; she can transfer it, too. It turned out her power, which had seemed like such a curse, could be a force for good as well. She had a large reserve of Aura already, and so she shared some of it with her brother. And he began to thrive.”

throughout the novel there is also a recurring thread of other people (theodore, finn, rumpole) remarking on how much promise gill had and how she could have been a great huntress—if only she hadn’t stuck with her brother. once jax’s mind-control semblance is found out, everyone assumes that he’s using it to keep gill under his thumb… but he isn’t. his semblance straight up does not work on her, possibly because her aura powers it. 

so gillian embodies the summer maiden’s lesson in two different ways; her father made a Huge Point of making sure she could take part in the world (instead of isolating her as salem’s father did), and gill bucked everyone’s assumptions about what she should do, actively following her own ambitions instead of passively accepting the expectation placed on her. 

gill is alive and in custody at the end of the novel. (jax likewise, although his memory was at least temporarily wiped.) if she’s the summer maiden, that ticks the box for summer being the excluded fourth in the seasonal triad-of-triads; she is not, in any sense except moral, fragile.

and gill as the summer maiden throws an interesting curveball at the Machine Question: what to do with a maiden who can also absorb the auras of fifty people to turbo charge her abilities, when that maiden is a reactionary nationalist who led a violent insurgency a few weeks ago and the only thing keeping her in jail is that she loves her brother and he’ll die without her? what do you do with her when you expect salem to rock up with another legion of grimm any day now? 

maybe you look at a machine meant for ripping aura out of a person to put in somebody else, and then look at her brother who has almost no aura of his own, and see a way for everyone to win? it isn’t like gillian asturias has any objection to transferring her own aura to her brother. she’s spent most of their lives doing exactly that, because she loves him.

the only difference is that the ATM can make that transfer permanent.

it won’t kill her: partial transfers are possible, and she’ll still have her ability to siphon aura. 

it might strip her of the maiden power, and—because the magic will only cleave to a woman—there is at least a chance that something like what happened with amber, pyrrha, and cinder can be deliberately triggered with gillian’s willing cooperation. transfer half gill’s aura to jax while gill focuses on an eligible candidate (cough, starr, cough), and maybe you can convince the magic to separate from gillian’s aura, leave her and jax, and hop into the chosen heir instead, just as it would if gillian died.

the reasoning is sound. gill would probably agree to do it for her brother’s sake; she and jax already share her aura, a permanent split between them would give them both an average amount of aura, and the transfer being partial would keep their consciousnesses separate, thus avoiding the Ozma Problem. all the thorny ethical problems involved in using the machines are avoided, and the magic’s rules are bent (gill lives) but not broken (the machine triggers an ordinary transfer), which reduces the risk that the magic will resist or break free. 

and if it does go wrong, the most probable outcome is that the magic ends up split between the asturias twins—which is not ideal, but you’ve also earned some goodwill from both of them by helping jax and you can maybe pitch them on an enemy-of-my-enemy alliance to defend vacuo from salem because they sure as fuck aren’t about to join her.

this is a) the only scenario where i can plausibly imagine RWBYJNOR et al deciding to use the ATM to transfer a maiden, and b) the only one i can imagine succeeding without having dire repercussions. 

the other possibility—one i think is all but guaranteed if gill isn’t the summer maiden—is that a villain uses the ATM to steal the maiden power, with dire repercussions. 

and in either case, as long as we’re prognosticating interminably on the summer maiden arc, we might as well think about what the shape of the V10 narrative arc might look like if salem isn’t in vacuo. 

the first point to address here is how inadequate tyrian is for the job of leading the operation in vacuo. he is extremely good at indiscriminate killing and quite bad at everything else; watts was in charge in V7 because watts is a competent strategist. tyrian lacks focus and discipline. in the short term, he’ll start and spread fires; in the longer term, if salem intends to bide her time, she needs someone reliable.

summer rose has been holding beacon against vale’s huntsmen for the last year or so whilst searching for the vault. she’s been with salem fourteen years. there is no question that salem both trusts and relies on her. even if it weren’t a binary choice between her and cinder, she’s the obvious pick. once salem arrives at beacon, she can take over the operation there, send summer ahead to handle vacuo, and keep cinder safely away from any other maidens.

the strategic end of salem’s operation in vacuo is to retrieve the sword from the vault under shade academy. she is undoubtedly prepared to deliver a siege and capture shade by force, but as with haven it’s more likely that Plan A is to do things quietly.

summer also has an immediate personal interest in accomplishing this goal without an open assault (her daughters are leading the defending coalition) and, given the level of autonomy implied by salem handing off beacon to her for a year+, probably broad latitude to make the tactical decisions she deems best.

so summer’s priority is finding the summer maiden and getting her to open the vault. she herself is probably not an eligible maiden candidate—she’s in her forties—so maiden-killing is out. her options are to persuade the summer maiden, or capture her and steal the magic if she can get her hands on an ATM. 

meanwhile, the crown is in shambles with the asturias twins in custody and the vacuo coalition holding strong in the face of the assumed-to-be-imminent threat, plus morale bolstered by team RWBY and jaune’s return. but the cracks still show. vacuans have always been hostile to outsiders, and the refugees are putting an enormous strain on the already-impoverished kingdom, even with aid pouring in from vale and mistral. the crown’s core supporters are people who believe that allowing refugees into vacuo will weaken its defenses, and the longer this drags on, the more they can capitalize on tensions to stoke dissent. 

gill and jax are bound to escape or get broken out by their loyalists sooner or later. if gill is the summer maiden, and summer identifies her as such, then getting the vault open might be as simple as posing as a huntress disillusioned by the “weakness” of the powers that be and telling gillian about the sword. 

the tricky part is getting the sword away from gillian, because a summer maiden who can drain aura and wields the sword of destruction is a walking nuke. summer might be able to pull it off if her semblance is along the same lines as ruby’s: have gill open the vault, rush the sword, cut her down before she can react. otherwise, cutting a deal—the sword in exchange for salem leaving vacuo alone—might work, because salem’s stated motive in the broadcast is to destroy the huntsman academies and that is also what gill wants, so summer could make a credible argument here that salem is a potential ally to the crown. 

if gill is not the summer maiden, then the crown is still potentially useful—a nascent civil war will distract the coalition and if the crown rebels again and wins, they’re probably going to be easier to persuade or manipulate into opening the vault (and jax can control the summer maiden, if it comes to that). also, adding the imminent threat of a civil war to the imminent threat of salem attacking puts more pressure on the coalition to risk using the sword.

the other thing summer might do is eschew the cloak-and-dagger routine altogether and take a gamble on approaching her daughters to open negotiations; this is, to put it mildly, a risk. but a very high-reward risk.

IN SUMMARY.

gillian asturias -> starr sanzang. probably.

summer rose is here and she’s not going to, at any point, Be the summer maiden but she is going to Cause Problems On Purpose.

one of the ways the summer maiden arc will be Different is that summer rose has some things to unpack (what happened to the last spring maiden That Night)

the vacuo ATM is either for the asturias twins OR someone (summer or jax) is going to do a murder OR there is no ATM, there’s just gill and her ability to (temporarily) steal the maiden power via aura, in which case it’s starr -> gillian -> starr and we might see magic-thieving conflicts between gill and winter or raven also.

if the ATM gets used for any other purpose than making gill’s and jax’s aura-sharing deal permanent it is going to be Very Bad. 

maybe the real crown was the reactionary insurgents we foiled along the way?

[transparentbeardmentality]

MHA ended by stripping Deku of agency over his life, future and feelings.

Bakugo, AM and friends COULD have talked to Deku about the tech research happening overseas, and just not disclosed who was funding it (if that was their concern). That at least would fall into "white lie" territory since Deku would still be fully involved, and money is often a private matter anyway.

(A tech entrepreneur using Deku as the perfect protoype for support gear for the quirkless, and Deku's gonna be mad about it? No.)

Instead we see that Deku had been otherized by his core group, talked about behind his back and deprived of a special interest (quirk and tech analysis! Come on!), because they ALL decided they knew what was best for him -including assuming he could not manage his feelings of disappointment if the tech didn't let him be a hero again. (Yikes.)

This obviously means he was not on equal footing with them, and not privy to information and discussion about HIS OWN LIFE AND BODY.

For years.

(And it would have been forever had he remained quirkless/"disabled")

This was treated as a grand gesture by the story, because it showed his friends and Bakugo were financially dedicated for a long time to having him regain his dream (*their dream*- so cute!)... while deciding for him that he was too fragile and self depricating to include and be honest with.

The disrespect.

And Deku being all quivery and weak about finding out?

AM saying Deku should know he 'earned/deserves this' sounds like an awful double entendre.

If he had any self-esteem left after his friends and mentor presumptively thought of him as a walking tragedy who must solely be protected from his own feelings and information about himself, I expect he would have tried on the gear, and then lost his shit that they cut him out of all of it.

And who is he supposed to trust now that everyone has been protecting him by cutting him out and engineering his potential future without him?

It's so insulting.

***?

Heads up, romantic-ableism stans-

Let's say you had a mobility issue. Think about your core group discussing your disability, future, and emotional fragility entirely behind your back for the better part of a decade.

Would this make you feel good or bad? (You would also likely sense your disclusion)

Would it inspire feelings of reciprocal respect and trust?

Would them spending money on a charity/med tech research for your disability, give them more of a right/justification to disclude you from group discussions **specifically about your life and abilities**?

Would the distrust and hurt disappear if they got a positive result from it, or would you feel like the result is at least somewhat tainted by feelings of rejection, and wondering if you could ever really be equal in their eyes after this?

Yeah... Not cool, right?

You deserve to be the first to know about any topic, advancement or setback pertaining to YOUR life and YOUR future, like ANY OTHER PERSON!

Abled or not. Difficult or not.

A disability does not automatically make you lesser, or a child in need of emotional coddling (read: lies and disclusion -however well-intentioned it may be by clueless ableds).

The otherizing was awful and unnecesary. Please examine your biases if you loved this ending for him.

[whispersofthepurplevalley]

Truthfully, I am scared to be here some days. This online space. To be here means to talk to people who don't see me and who don't necessarily know me well. To be here is a game of presumption, explanation and half-baked information. You read what is written, but you don't read what is said. You don't read the eyes. You don't read the fingers. To be here is to form relationships without a solid foundation. Always fragile, on the verge of breaking over a statement. As much as I like the idea of connecting to the world through digital media, I don't fancy its incomplete nature. You connect but you don't decipher a soul. It's always between thinking you know someone and not really knowing.

-Sabina Yesmin

[worldwide-simp]

Diary of the inferior

Scp x reader

(isn't really proof-read )

This is something I had written a few words of, stored in my drafts and didn't let it see the light of day (see what I did there hehe) for some time. But I have now finished it (kinda) and its certainly one of my longest pieces. 

(The first few entries are short and poorly written, but it becomes better after some time.)

warnings: gore, kinda pessimistic views, I hate Entry 1 with all my heart, false reality, violence, euthanasia, body horror, religious talk, death.

Scp 105 is post Omega-7, she’s 24 here.

Entry 1: New Beginnings

Dear Diary, 

Maybe I should’ve listened when people told me to never take strange job opportunities.  

I thought it was perfect, I was working in a shop on minimum wage, and I could barely afford simple life necessities.

I still had to pay off my student debt and that made life all the harder. When I saw this strange opportunity presented to me by a shady caucasian man, I believed that this would be my saving light. 

I wish I had been shot that day. A bullet mysteriously found its way into my skull. A news reported merely stated it was an accident; or running from that horrid officer only to “disappear” and never see the light of day again.

I just wish that death had claimed me as one of their countless victims before immortality and the infinite loop of time laid hands upon me.

—-

Entry 2: the flower of beloved Iris

Dear Diary, 

On my photo ID, there was my smiling face. It was a smile of pure joy. You could glance at it and call it cheeky if you dared. But I was merely innocent. Innocent as a human could be. 

After the photo had been taken, I was briefed on what I’d be doing. A rambling speech about the foundation's lack of care for qualified staff and instead people with logic and reasoning. 

That gave you a fighting chance, because how bad could this job be if you just needed a little logic?  I met a girl a few weeks later. I always wondered why she had that camera with her. Perhaps it had been a dear hobby of hers? 

I found out my presumption was wrong when she took a photograph of a flower in a vase some distance away, took the picture out and then proceeded to stick her hand in the image; giving me the flower after twirling it in her fingers. 

Iris seemed proud of making me joyful, I believed I laughed all night. I later placed the flower on my desk, and even after it wilted and its petals fragile and bleak; I still folded it into my pocket and to this day it still resides there. 

She was more on the quiet side but still gave me those sad smiles with dimples on her cheeks.  I had distinctively remembered wondering about the cause of those scars on her eyelid, jaw and hands.  — 

Entry 3: false reality

Dear Diary, 

I found out Iris was an anomaly; an Scp, if you wanted a more precise definition. This was told to me by a person higher on the foundation hierarchy for its staff. Not Iris herself. 

Was I slightly hurt? Yes. 

It had left me staring into a void, although I had seen her camera doing its magic. I must have created some false reality in my head that explained this bizarre situation. 

At the time, I was scrawling through my notebook with such vigour it was comparable to an inspired writer. I was not inspired in a awestriking way. Simply wanting to write about my trepidations concerning this topic and send the letter to me in a shitty way of making myself laugh.

(Mind you, if you too were stuck as a lab assistant watching sentient doughnuts bite people, you almost certainly develop terrible humour.)

—

Entry 4: the beginning of the end

Dear Diary, 

Something strange had occurred.

I had been assigned a mission. Naturally I was confused. Lab assistants being assigned things other than cleaning up the blood after cross-testings? It was something I found most peculiar. 

They, (foundation staff),had suited me up in some strange black equipment, handed me a gun and pushed me over to some people waiting inside a black van.

I don't even have a formal qualification to handle a gun; I had screamed. Why would this be happening? I remember saying that to myself. over and over again.

A pathetic mantra that I so feebly considered answered by the many voices in my head. I cried. Then I wiped the liquid with my hand; I had refused the notion that I was a weak, feeble creature hiding the true meaning of my nature. 

When I really was just that. 

All those other people had kept their heads down, mindlessly fidgeting with their hands or drumming their fingers nervously on the knee. I merely stared at the wall, already feeling the sensation of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. 

I didn't know them, and at this rate; I would never.

—

Entry 5: pathetic chess games

Dear diary, 

They had gotten off the van, dressed in full tactical gear and shivering with a dreadful fear. This situation felt wrong and I memorized the look of someone who knew too much. It was in a puddle of water. It was my face.

Perhaps I was seeing the foreshadows of fate that dangled right in front of my eyes. But I saw nothing, heard nothing and knew nothing. This was all one of the many cruel games the foundation played, killing people as if they were mere chess pieces. 

All just to win to the game, only for another to proceed after that.

—

Entry 6: the majority and the minority

Dear Diary, 

 Scp-001 S. D. Locke’s proposal is one of the many 001 proposals that exist: detailing the sun becoming a hostile being that eradicates human beings, converts them into sentient piles of flesh which aim to find unconverted humans and drag them into the sunlight, for them too to become those hideous masses of skin. 

The scenario occurred in my timeline, at first I didn't know what was happening, only that the other staff members had screamed about the light being good and holy before I heard the most awful noises.

It squelched, moaned and cried. I suppressed gags and muffled my mouth with a cloth. What the fuck was happening? Where had they all gone? Why do they sound not human anymore?

I had ran out from the cover of the van to shield under the safety of a building, not before looking back and laying my eyes upon a horror of flesh melting away under the rays of the hostile sun, dragging its amorphous clumps of bodies towards me. 

They had once been human like myself. I had only saved myself but not them. I should go join them to redeem myself to the judging light and have my sins cleansed. I was a wretched human not worthy of being alive. 

I kept on running, determined to never let the sun touch my skin ever again. I had slammed the door of the building. It was desolate and empty. When I’d step on the ground too hard, I could hear the echoes of the impact.

The was a distinctive waft of bleach, specifically chlorine that reminded me of swimming pools. There was a lack of furnacing; which reminisced the not-so-distant memory of my office. I took shallow breaths, slumping down to the ground and rubbing a sore ligament. 

This was a weak thing a human could do, but I sobbed. I cried and cried until I felt like everything went numb. But it cleared my mind slightly, feeling less like a suffocating cloth and more so like a haze of cloud. 

I felt around in my breast pocket, closing my fingers around a packet and tearing it off and chewed on the granola bar slowly. My mouth felt dry and my throat burned, however, despite the lack of comfort, I still ate. 

I pondered on what I could do. Could I stay here and call for backup or try to find someone who was still alive? 

I sighed, then fiddled with the packet from the granola bar. Was I at fault for my comrades being turned into those abominations of flesh? I could've saved them; told them to stay inside the van and that I’d go out and check. It would’ve resulted in my death, but wasn't appeasing the majority a more important factor than the minority? 

—

Entry 7: The silence of the lamb

Dear Diary,  

I had a radio that I had snatched last minute from the van before dashing off. I had tried reaching out to anyone I could. But there was only silence.

—

Entry 8: Nihilism

Dear Diary, 

I had successfully contacted a person without being disoriented by loud static. I heard heavy breathing, it was loud and quite alarming. There was a persistent sloshing of liquid in the background. It was quiet for a few seconds; eerily quiet. Before someone spoke. 

“You are alone. You will stay forever alone if you do not accept the beautiful light. Go outside.” 

I threw the radio to a corner of the room, and it broke into several pieces. The voice didn't sound human anymore, it was distorted with an otherworldly passion. I was so blinded by the anger that had irrationally consumed me for a second I broke my only means of communication.  

Maybe I would be truly alone if I didn't go outside.

There was nothing to live for anymore.

—

Entry 9: kiss away the gore

Dear Diary, 

If loneliness was the way I would die, perhaps it would be better to perish in the sun than of hunger and the echoing quiet. I lived in cowardliness and fear. I can be free where I belong. 

I opened the door I had blocked two days ago. Such a feeble mind, but I had found revelation.  I will cleanse my body of this impurity, harbouring sins and the devil's hands caressing my skin. 

I will burn it all away. 

This was the only way I would be accepted, then I’d find peace. 

I stepped into the sunlight and stared at the scarlet sun's beauty. I felt my skin being pulled apart, melting into a puddle of goo, bones liquefying and a boiling feeling. My human mouth shrieked, but that was insignificant. My fingers merged together before becoming a singular stump and my body was crafted new.

There was an agony I couldn't describe in words. No matter how many times I may rip out this page and rewrite it countless times, no work of poetry could ever shed light on the feeling. 

My body was crafted pristine, I now moved surprisingly fast. The puddle of goo had moulded itself into the body of my absolute nature. I sought new flesh. That I would bind myself to another pure being. 

Later, I stumbled across a facility devoid of people, there were only pools of blood on the floor. The once pure white walls had undertones of fleshy colours. If I were still human, I would've gagged at the goriness of it all.

But I didn't, instead I lurked deeper into the building. A net ensnared my body all of a sudden, and I choked out a throaty snarl. A familiar figure loomed over me, with a knife poised at my throat. 

I gnashed my fleshy teeth together, reaching out to capture this impure human and bring it to the light. But the creases under their eyes faded, tossed the knife to the side and removed the netting. 

What was this revolting human doing-

I was engulfed in an embrace, a hand of theirs resting on the small of my back and the other placed upon my throat, pushing it back. Almost as if it was endeavouring for me not to rip out their face.

“I can't believe something like this could happen to such a beautiful person like you.” They murmured, gripping my body tighter like I would dissolve into ash at any moment. My jaw snapped abruptly and they hushed me. 

I heard the shuffling of fabric. Cool metal grazed my face before I heard them speak again; “It must be painful for you, I’ll shoot you so you can rest peacefully.” 

Then they squeezed my back with such gentleness it would be hard to imagine that someone like this would shoot me. 

The last things I felt were the soft fluttering of my dead heart, a soft kiss on the lips and seeing their appearance one more time. Admiring their shortly cut blond hair, scars adorning their face and cerulean blue eyes. 

Those beloved dimples showed as they smiled so miserably at the prospect of being alone once again. But this was for your sake. 

“Wait-”

She pulled the trigger. 

And you saw nothing. 

[mafaldaknows]

Finally, a legitimate news source calling out this situation for what it is.

It’s fascinating to hear the media use the evidence and language we ourselves in this fandom have been using in defense of Armie Hammer on social media. Holding this two-year long vigil may finally have opened the eyes that needed to see this situation for exactly what it is.

Armie Hammer is the victim of defamation by opportunists perverting the original intentions of #metoo and #believewomen in the virtual town square for their own selfish, nefarious purposes by exploiting those among the general public who love nothing more than to throw a rich and famous man with perceived privileges under the nearest bus, just because they can.

The perversion of #MeToo in the name of faux-militant feminist ideology is driving this popular online movement of indicting and condemning famous men in the court of public opinion without legitimate evidence of criminal wrongdoing, without the presumption of innocence, without due process, and without the possibility of redemption in any form.

Hammer’s accusers, as well as his ex-wife, recognized the window of opportunity presenting itself in the post-Weinstein zeitgeist, and climbed right in, in the search for the 15 minutes of internet fame to which they assumed they were guaranteed, and to which they felt wholly entitled, by any means necessary.

All it takes is one biased source with a fragile ego and a personal vendetta using gullible people mindlessly consuming internet content without due diligence or critical thinking skills to accept their even marginally plausible lies as if they were facts and spreading them like wildfire about their target on the internet. All the better for instant believability without the requirements of facts and evidence, if their lies come spewing forth from Instagram-ready, artificially-enhanced, telegenic faces.

People really are that simple. And the rush to judgment is what makes the internet go ‘round, after all.

We must aim to be more mindful and responsible consumers and creators of content on social media, lest we end up eating ourselves, as a functional and civil society.

Enough already.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Getting together

When the news of the first factory occupation (that of the Sud Aviation plant at Nantes) reached the Sorbonne — late during the night of Tuesday 14 May — there were scenes of indescribable enthusiasm. Sessions were interrupted for the announcement. Everyone seemed to sense the significance of what had just happened. After a full minute of continuous, delirious cheering, the audience broke into a synchronous, rhythmical clapping, apparently reserved for great occasions.

On Thursday 16 May the Renault factories at Cléon (near Rouen) and at Flins (North West of Paris) were occupied. Excited groups in the Sorbonne yard remained glued to their transistors as hour by hour news came over of further occupations. Enormous posters were put up, both inside and outside the Sorbonne, with the most up-to-date information of which factories had been occupied: the Nouvelles Messageries de Presse in Paris, Kléber Colombes at Caudebec, Dresser-Duiardin at Le Havre, the naval shipyard at Le Trait...and finally the Renault works at Boulogne Billancourt. Within 48 hours the task had to be abandoned. No noticeboard — or panel of noticeboards — was large enough. At last the students felt that the battle had really been joined.

Early on the Friday afternoon an emergency ‘General Assembly’ was held. The meeting decided to send a big student deputation to the occupied Renault works. lts aim was to establish contact, express student solidarity and, if possible, discuss common problems. The march was scheduled to leave the Place de la Sorbonne at 6pm. At about 5pm thousands of leaflets were suddenly distributed in the amphitheaters, in the Sorbonne yard and in the streets around. They were signed by the Renault Bureau Of the CGT. The Communist Party had been working...fast. The leaflets read: “We have just heard that students and teachers are proposing to set out this afternoon in the direction of Renault. This decision was taken without consulting the appropriate trade union sections of the CGT, CFDT and FO. “We greatly appreciate the solidarity of the students and teachers in the common struggle against the ‘pouvoir personnel’ (ie de Gaulle) and the employers. but are opposed to any ill-judged initiative which might threaten our developing movement and facilitate a provocation which would lead to a diversion by the government. We strongly advise the organizers of this demonstration against preceding with their plans. “We intend, together with the workers now struggling for their claims, to lead our own strike. We refuse any external intervention, in conformity with the declaration jointly signed by the CGT, CFDT and FO unions, and approved this morning by 23,000 workers belonging to the factory.”

The distortion and dishonesty of this leaflet defy description. No-one intended to instruct the workers how to run the strike and no student would have the presumption to seek to assume its leadership. AlI that the students wanted was to express solidarity with the workers in what was now a common struggle against the state and the employing class.

The CGT leaflet came like an icy shower to the less political students and to all those who still had illusions about Stalinism. “They won’t let us get through.” “The workers don’t want to talk with us.” The identification of workers with ‘their’ organizations is very hard to break down. Several hundred who had intended to march to Billancoud were probably put off, The UNEF vacillated, reluctant to lead the march in direct violation of the wishes of the CGT. Finally some 1500 people set out, under a single banner, hastily prepared by some Maoist students. The banner proclaimers ‘The strong hands of the working class must now take over the torch from the fragile hands of the students’. Many joined the march who were not Maoists and who didn’t necessarily agree with this particular formulation of its objectives.

Although small when compared to other marches, this was certainly a most political one. Practically everyone on it belonged to one or other of the ‘groupuscules’: a spontaneous united front of Maoists, Trotskyists, anarchists, the comrades of the Mouvement du 22 Mars and various others. Everyone knew exactly what he was doing. It was this that was so to infuriate the Communist Party. The march sets off noisily, crosses the Boulevard St Michel, and passes in front of the occupied Odeon Theatre (where several hundred more joyfully join it). It then proceeds at a very brisk pace down the rue de Vaugirard, the longest street in Paris, towards the working class districts to the South West of the city, growing steadily in size and militancy as it advances. It is important we reach the factory before the Stalinists have time to mobilize their big battalions...

Slogans such as “Avec nous, chez Renault” (come with us to Renault), “Le pouvoir est dans la rue” (power lies in the street), Le pouvoir aux ouvriers” (power to the workers) are shouted lustily, again and again. The Maoists shout “A bàs Ie gouvernement gaulliste anti-populaire de chomage et de misère” — a long and ‘politically equivocal slogan, but one eminently suited to collective shouting. The Internationals bursts out repeatedly, sung this time by people who seem to know the words — even the second verse! By the time we have marched the five milks to Issy-les-Moulineaux it is already dark. Way behind us now are the bright lights of the Latin Quarter and of the fashionable Paris known to tourists. We go through small, poorly-lit streets, the uncollected rubbish piled high In places. Dozens of young people join us en route, attracted by the noise and the singing of revolutionary songs such as ‘La Jeune Garde’, ‘Zimmerwald’, and the song of the Partisans, “chez Renault, chez Renault” the marchers shout. People congregate in the doors of the bistros, or peer out of the windows of crowded fiats to watch us pass. Some look on in amazement but many — possibly a majority — now”’ clap or wave encouragement. In some streets many Algerians fine the pavement. Some join in the shouting of CSCRS — SS”’ “Charonne”’ “A bàs I’Etat policier” They have not forgotten. Most look on shyly or smile in an embarrassed way. Very few join the march.

On we go, a few miles more. There isn’t a gendarme in sight. We cross the Seine and eventually stow down as we approach a square beyond which lie the Renault works. The streets here arc very badly-lit. There is a sense of intense excitement in the air. We suddenly come up against a lorry, parked across most of the road, and fitted with loudspeaker equipment. The march stops. On the lorry stands a CGT official. He speaks for five minutes. In somewhat chilly tones he says how pleased he is to see us. “Thank you for coming, comrades. We appreciate your solidarity. But please no provocations. Don’t go too near the gated as the management would use it as an excuse to call the police. And go home soon. lt’s cold and you’ll need all your strength in the days to come.” The students have brought their own loud hailers. One or two speak, briefly. They take note of the comments of the comrade from the CGT. They have no intention of provoking anyone, no wish to usurp anyone’s functions, We then slowly but quite deliberately move forwards into the square, on each side of the lorry, drowning the protests of about a hundred Stalinists in a powerful ‘lnternationale’. Workers in neighbouring cafes come out and join us. This time the Party had not had time to mobilize its militants. It could not physically isolate us.

Part of the factory now looms up right ahead of us, three storeys high on our left, two storeys high on our right, In front of us, there is a giant metal gate, closed and bolted. A large first floor window to our right is crowded with workers. The front row sit with their legs dangling over the sill. Several seem in their teens’, one of them waves a big red flag. There are no ‘tricolores’ in sight — no ideal allegiance’ as in other occupied places I had seen. Several dozen more workers are on the roofs of the two buildings. We wave. They wave back. We sing the ‘Internationale’. They join in. We give the clenched fist salute. They do likewise. Everybody cheers. Contact has been made. An interesting exchange takes place. A group of demonstrators stabs shouting “Les usines aux ouvriers” (the factories to the workers). The slogan spreads like wildfire through the crowd. The Maoists, now in a definite minority, are rather annoyed. (According to Chairman Mao, workers’ control is a petty-bourgeois, anarcho- syndicaiist deviation.) “les usines aux ouvriers”..10, 20 times the slogan reverberates round the Place Nationals, taken up by a crowd now some 3000 strong.

As the shouting subsides, a lone voice from one of the Renault roofs shouts back’. “La Sorbonne aux Etudiants”. Other workers on the same roof take it up. Then those on the other roof. By the volume of their voices they must be at beast 100 of them, on top of each building. There is then a moment of silence. Everyone thinks the exchange has come to an end. But one of the demonstrators starts chanting’. “La Sorbonne aux ouvriers”. Amid general laughter, everyone joins in.

We start talking. A rope is quickly passed down from the window, a bucket at the end of it, Bottles of beer and packets of fags are passed up. Also revolutionary leaflets. Also bundles of papers (mainly copies of Server Ie Peuple — a Maoist journal carrying a big title ‘Vive la CGT’). At street level there are a number of gaps in the metal facade of the building. Groups of students cluster at these half-dozen openings and talk to groups of workers on the other side. They discuss wages, conditions, the CRS, what the lads inside need most, how the students can help. The men talk freely. They are not Party members. They think the constant talk of provocateurs a bit far-fetched. But the machines must be protected. We point out that two or three students inside the factory, escorted by the strike committee, couldn’t possibly damage the machines. They agree. We contrast the widely open doors of the Sorbonne with the heavy locks and bolts on the Renault bates — closed by the CGT officials to prevent the ideological contamination of ‘their’ militants. How silly, we say, to have to talk through these stupid little slits in the wall.

Again they agree. They will put it to their ‘dirigeants’ (leaders), No-one seems, as yet, to think beyond this. There is then a diversion. A hundred yards away a member of the FER gets up on a parked car and starts making a speech through a Ioud hailer. The intervention is completely out of tune with the dialogue that is just starting. it’s the same gramophone record we have been hearing all week at the Sorbonne. “CaII on the union leaders to organism the election of strike committees in every factory. Force the union leaders to federate the strike committees. Force the union leaders to set up a national strike committee. Force them to call a general strike throughout the whole of the country” (this at a time when millions of workers are already on strike without any call whatsoever). The tone is strident, almost hysterical, the misjudging of the mood monumental. The demonstrators themselves drown the speaker in a loud ‘Internationale’. As the last bar fades the Trotskyist tries again. Again the demonstrators drown him, Groups stroll up the Avenue Yves Kermen, to the other entrances to the factory. Real contact is here more difficult to establish. There is a crowd outside the gate, but most of them are Party members. Some won’t talk at all, Others just talk slogans.

We walk back to the Square. It is now well past midnight. The crowd thins, Groups drop into a couple of cafes which are still open. Here we meet a whole group of young workers, aged about 18, They had been in the factory earlier in the day. They tell us that at any given time, just over 1000 workers are engaged in the occupation. The strike started on the Thursday afternoon, at about 2pm, when the group of youngsters from shop 70 decided to down tools and to spread into all part: of the factory asking their mates to do likewise. That same morning they had heard of the occupation of Cléon and that the red flag was floating over the factory at Flins. There had been a int of talk about what to do. At a midday meeting tile CGT had spoken vaguely of a series of rotating strikes, shop by shop, to be initiated the following day. The movement spread at an incredible pace. The youngsters went round shouting “Occupation! Occupationl”. Half the factory had stopped working before the union officials realized what was happening. At about 4pm, Sylvain, a CGT secretary, had arrived with loudspeaker equipment to tell them “they weren’t numerous enough, to start work again, that they would see tomorrow about a one-day strike”. He is absolutely by-passed. At 5pm Halbeher, general secretary of the Renault CGT, announces, pale as a sheet, that the “CGT has called for the occupation of the factor”. “Tell your friends”, the lads say. “We started it. But will we be able to keep it in our hands? Cà, c’est un autre problème...”

Students? Well, hats off to anyone who can thump the cops that hard! The lads tell up two of their mates had disappeared from the factory altogether 10 days ago “to help the Revolution”. Left family, jobs, everything. And good luck to them. “A chance like this comes once in a lifetime.” We discuss plans, how to develop the movement. The occupied factory could be a ghetto, ‘isolant Ies durs’ (isolating the most militant). We talk about camping, the cinema, the Sorbonne, the future. Almost until sunrise... ‘Attention aux provocateurs’

Social upheavals, such as the one France has just been through, leave behind them a trail of shattered reputations. The image of Gaullism as a meaningful way of life, ‘accepted’ by the French people, has taken a tremendous knock. But so has the image of the Communist Party as a viable challenge to the French Establishment, As far as the students are concerned the recent actions of the PCF (Parti Communiste Français) are such that the Party has probably sealed its fate in this milieu for a generation to come, Among the workers the effects are more difficult to assess and it would be denature to attempt this assessment. All that can be said is that the effects are sure to be profound although they will probably take some time to express themselves. The proletarian condition itself was for a moment questioned. Prisoners who have had a glimpse of freedom do not readily resume a life sentence.

The full implications of the role of the PCF and of the CGT have yet to be appreciated by British revolutionaries, They need above all else to be informed. In this section we will document the role of the PCF to the best of our ability, It is important to realise that for every ounce of shit thrown at the students in its official publications, the Party poured tons more over them at meetings or in private conversations. In the nature of things it is more difficult to document this kind of slander.