#v; in toleration and in retaliation

[eggtargaryenii]

EAST OF THE SUN | PART V

Aemond leaned down then, looking at the man as if he were a pest—a stain beneath his boot. “My justice is not a lenient one, ser,” he murmured. A red glow pulsed on his left periphery, in the spot where he was blind: a phantom vision from his missing eye, the absence of which he felt everyday. “The next time you lay your hand on my lady, I shall cut it off myself.”

6k words, aemond x fem!reader x jacaerys. childhood friends to lovers (except it's cousins), political drama. chapter warnings for sexual harassment/misogyny. dividers from @/cafekitsune.

SERIES SUMMARY & MASTERLIST.

X. JUSTICE

Aemond had never liked the way men looked at you.

He noticed this from a young age, watching as his brother’s eyes roved over your body. Aegon looked at you as a man would view a decadent feast or wine rather than a human being. Something to be owned. Something to be devoured. Aemond did not know entirely what it meant until after that day in the tourney stands, listening to his brother explain what a whore was, and what his brother wished to do with you—to debase you as he would a woman on the Street of Silk.

As soon as he understood this about Aegon, he understood it about other men as well. You were aware of it too, had likely been aware of it your entire childhood. You never did explain to Aemond, growing up, why you were so often upset, but he pieced it together eventually. You always ran to the dragonpit after some lord eyed you too hungrily, after some squire or guard or knight tried to put his hands on you, after Aegon did put his hands on you to squeeze at whatever part of your body he could. And of course no one helped you. His mother could not stop Aegon’s impulses to dishonour you, his father was too neglectful to care, and Aemond—

Aemond had been too weak.

It incensed him beyond thinking. He had been a powerless child, unable to defend himself, so of course he could not defend you either. He would be patronised by the grown men he ordered to stop, who always smiled politely at him and claimed that they were only being friendly. Aegon was worse—Aegon did not feel the least bit ashamed of his desires and repeatedly told Aemond that he would do the same to you if he were a real man. (Never, Aemond always thought viciously, never would he touch you like that, never would he make you cry like that.) He felt a vicious anger in those moments that he could barely contain. It was nearly as terrible as it was after he lost his eye and he realised that he could not defend his mother from either Rhaenyra’s manipulations or his father’s wroth.

While Aemond was weak though, you eventually began to retaliate. First by kicking his brother in the shin, then by throwing things at him. It already shamed Aemond that you had to do this for yourself, but what made it worse was that his mother punished you for defending yourself, lecturing that your family should always show unity before others. It was not so different from how she advised Aemond to tolerate his brother’s mistreatment of him in both public and private.

Aemond was never upset with Alicent over his own misgivings, but your hardship was something else altogether. It was easy to for Aemond to swallow public humiliation for himself, for he loved his queen mother and considered himself a loyal son—but for you?

He could not swallow it for you. He could not bear to let you suffer the indignity of being treated like an expensive cut of meat by the entirety of the court.

Aemond resolved to put an end to it when he was older—just as he resolved to put an end to his own torment, and just as he resolved to put an end to his mother’s worry. She had a precarious position with a King who did not love her or her sons, and you had a precarious position with the men at court who felt entitled to touch and insult you as they pleased. It was natural that he wanted to protect you both, and he could only do so if he gained power.

So power he did obtain. Aemond honed himself into a weapon, and he did not hesitate from using his blade’s edge. His presence around you became constant, imposing. Whenever men demanded your presence, he made sure to smile sharply and make it known that you were under his protection: “Return her to me once you are done,” he always commanded. Return her to me whole and unharmed, or else face my wrath if she is hurt, he always left unsaid.

When he was only newly a man, having seen ten-and-six name days, there were occasionally those who chose to defy him anyway. The most egregious was a visiting lord of the Stormlands who made it known that he found you quite comely. “No wonder kings and lords often go to Lys to find their concubines,” the lord had said, his eyes greedy upon you. “The women of their pillowhouses appear to be quite beautiful.”

You could not afford to offend him, for you could not afford to offend Otto Hightower. You only smiled stiffly, taking the hand he'd offered you. “Thank you, my lord,” you replied. “You flatter me too much. I was born in the Red Keep, and I was raised among the noble houses of Westeros. I am, in truth, as Westerosi as you.”

It did not matter to the Stormlands lord, just as it never seemed to matter to any other man. He took you to dance, and Aemond saw what he did to you, what you could not defend yourself from in the middle of a banquet hall filled with oppressive, heavy gazes. Stinking of Arbor gold and perfume, the older man openly grabbed you, pressed his body against yours, manhandled you like the Great Hall was a pleasure house and you were his preferred whore.

You were going to strike him, Aemond saw. Your brow twitched and your arm wound with tension, the way that it always did before you slapped Aegon. You were going to hit this lord and the consequences would be dire, for it would be a disgrace to House Targaryen for one of its ladies to conduct herself with such violence and inhospitality.

But Aemond was a man—and men are not so easily punished for violence.

He moved quickly, serpentlike. Not even Ser Criston, who had begun to cut a path toward you, could match Aemond’s pace. He placed a hand on the offending lord's shoulders, and suddenly the oaf was thrown like a ragdoll, body sliding across the marble floor as the crowd parted around him. Aemond’s boot crushed the chest of the drunken fool, pinning him down. Screams teared from several throats; an angry yell from the lord.

“How dare you,” he snapped. “Is this how House Targaryen comports itself to other nobles?”

Aemond only smiled. Steel flashed like lightning under the chandelier, and the edge of his blade pressed neatly against the wrist of the lord, drawing a thin, red line across his skin.

“House Targaryen,” Aemond declared loudly, “does not tolerate dishonourable behaviour toward any of its princesses or ladies. I imagine that your liege lord would not either, nor any of the other nobles in the Stormlands.”

He leaned down then, looking at the man as if he were a pest—a stain beneath his boot. “My justice is not a lenient one, ser,” Aemond murmured. A red glow pulsed on his left periphery, in the spot where he was blind: a phantom vision from his missing eye, the absence of which he felt everyday. “The next time you lay your hand on my lady, I shall cut it off myself.”

Ser Criston escorted the man out, and the lord departed from court the next day. Suddenly every lecher who had ever pestered you kept a wide berth from you, and every man you encountered was nothing but polite. You moved with so much more ease after that: less tense, less small, less sombre. You were no longer afraid of existing in the presence of others, Aemond observed. You even seemed to laugh and smile more openly, the sight of which he would never tire.

“I am grateful for what you did,” you said after the fact, “but I still think it was very extreme. Your mother was quite unhappy with you, you know, and your grandsire was displeased as well.”

“Alicent was indeed startled,” he admitted, “and the Hand prefers to keep his relationships cordial for the sake of his own plans, but this was the only way to ensure your safety. If men do not fear, then they do not obey. Sometimes it is necessary to demonstrate one’s might for the sake of order.”

You gave him a long look. “Such is the way that our ancient house thinks, but I am unsure that it is always true. Sometimes it helps to exercise self-restraint.”

Aemond’s mouth curled. He wondered if you knew how gentle your disposition could be, how naive you could be.

“My lady,” he replied, “I was exercising self-restraint. I was even being merciful. He kept his hands when he should have lost both, did he not?”

XI. THE STAR, REVERSED

Alicent seemed apprehensive on the night before the tournament, just as Aemond thought she would be.

He sought her out in Maegor’s Holdfast: one of the few places in the castle free from eavesdroppers by way of servants and listeners within its walls. If any whispers came from the tower, it was due to the folly of the people residing there, and Alicent would not err in this matter. She would stay tight-lipped to everyone but him—for he was his mother’ son, and he knew how to appeal to her weaknesses.

“You intend to wed my cousin to Ser Arthur Tyrell,” he said. His voice was soft, a statement rather than an accusation.

She swallowed. “Yes. The Tyrells are a great house—a match nearly unimaginable. And you met Ser Arthur: the man is dignified, handsome, and cares not for the girl’s origins. She will be treated well.”

“It may seem that way outwardly,” Aemond said, “but I must inform you of some devastating news I heard from Ser Criston.”

“News?”

“Yes. It seems that Ser Arthur is a raper—Ser Criston saw it for himself during his time in the Dornish Marches. Acts that were an affront to the Seven. Crimes to the Mother, Maiden, and Crone alike.”

Alicent was almost certainly aware that he had deduced she'd already known this. The flicker of doubt in her eyes and tension in her body gave it away. Still, she quickly donned a mask of surprise and revulsion. “A raper?”

“Yes.” The corner of his mouth turned down. “You must know, Mother—I worry for my cousin. You know how dear she is to me.” Everyone in the Red Keep seemed to know it except for you, Aemond thought dryly. “I would not be able to live with myself if I did not plead for you to stop this match.”

She breathed in deeply, tried her best to look reluctant and fretful. “I know how much this must worry you, but the matter has already been settled, Aemond. We cannot offend the Tyrells by dissolving this betrothal. But your cousin is quite resourceful—I am sure she will find a way to stay safe. Doubly so, since the Tyrells will not want to offend us.”

“But my grandsire has a greater wish not to offend them,” he said softly. “He needs their support when we claim the throne, and he intends to trade her body to secure it. It leaves her without any leverage.”

It was difficult to keep his voice gentle when the thought drove him mad. Always, always—people wished to buy and sell you, to treat you like a bed slave to be used. He would cut off the hands of every man in the Red Keep if it meant that no one would ever try that with you again. Sometimes, he even believed that he would cut off even those hands belonging to his own brother.

Alicent would never consent to such violence just to protect you, but she sounded earnest when she replied, “It is not easy for me to do this to your cousin.”

“I know it is not.” Aemond kept his face solemn. “It is already difficult for you to turn a blind eye to all those maids that fall victim to my brother’s impulses”—except it was not difficult for her at all, he thought, for Alicent staunchly needed her family to maintain the appearance of unity—“but I imagine it is unbearable to watch it happen to a girl you raised and cared for as your own. You were practically a mother to her.”

A subtle frown. “I am hardly anything like her mother.”

Are you so blind as to think you are not? he thought. For Alicent tried to teach you the values that she taught to her children, and she struck you for your disgraces as hard as she struck Aegon, and she told you to swallow your humiliations as often as she did Aemond. And she resented you as much as she resented all of them—for giving birth to them when she was still yet a child, for being saddled with the responsibility of raising them, for doing it all alone because his father did not love her nor any of them.

Aemond considered himself a loyal son, but he had no delusions about any of this. It was so obvious that not even Aegon was fool enough to miss this fact: his mother did not love either of the sons she had raised.

And just as equally, she did not love you.

“But even if I am not a mother to her,” Alicent mused, “you are right in thinking I mislike this. I find it unbearable… but sometimes we must do unbearable things to protect the people important to us.”

“Yes—truer words than any. Sometimes we must do the worst to protect the ones we love.”

His mother knew him well. He watched as Alicent’s eyes flickered with understanding. She took a deep breath and regarded him as if he was something to fear: a threat or a monster, rather than her own son. The moment was brief, but Aemond noticed it just as he had noticed it all the times before. He could not help the sharp knife of disappointment in his heart.

“What are you planning, Aemond?” she asked.

His mouth curled, and he did not answer her question. She likely already knew.

“Do not resent me for this, Mother. You have said it yourself: this marriage isn't something you want, either. Allow me to do what you cannot.” And let me free you from the guilt that will burden you should you condemn your daughter to this match that Grandsire has orchestrated.

Alicent gave him a long look. “You ask for me to allow it, but I cannot stop you.”

He hummed, still smiling—guiltless. For Aemond considered himself a loyal son, and that meant that he must do all the things that his mother was too gentle to know she should do. It meant that he must make men fear their family when she was not capable of it. It meant that he must show might when she was weak.

It meant that he must maintain order when no one else would.

“No,” he agreed. “You cannot.”

XII. KNIGHT OF CUPS

You were not fond of tourneys when you were younger.

Social pariahs do not do well at social events. While tournaments and feasts were a source of joy for everyone else, they—like every other celebration—only served to highlight how friendless you were. At first you tried to enjoy them with Helaena, but her mother eventually forbade it, so worried she was about your influence on her daughter. It was disappointing, but not unexpected. You then tried spending the time with Aemond, but Aegon was always made to sit near him, meaning that he also sat near you. It quickly became intolerable: Aegon’s hands would always curiously end up on your body—your lower back, your thighs, your bottom, and so on.

Aegon’s behaviour used to make you cry from the discomfort (privately, for you would have rather died than showed weakness before him), but after a time you grew tired of the crying and you started to kick him in retaliation. While this effectively kept his hands off you, it also meant that Alicent eventually also forbade her two sons from sitting near you. She could not have Aegon making a fool of himself during every tourney, yelping as you defended yourself.

In the end, you were left to sit alone in every tourney, which was simply uncomfortable. You loved a good joust as much as anyone else, but it was not nearly so fun when you had no one to spectate with or speak with between rounds. You would only sit there alone, with a favour that the septa had forced you to make, for which no one would ask, acutely aware of the gazes of other people. You always squirmed in your seat, trying not to think of the judgements being passed upon you: how lonely you were, how pathetic you were, how few people of noble standing would ever want your company except to touch you as if you were a bed slave like your mother.

All of this changed when Aemond grew up.

As soon as he was old enough to have the freedom, he began to accompany you during any festivities, sitting next to you in the stands. And when he began to join the listings, you always looked forward to seeing him cut down his opponents, knocking them brutally off their horses or making them yield to his sword. Even though you sat alone, you were never lonely, for Aemond spent the idle time between rounds with you, smiling in genuine amusement as you leaned over the barrier to jest and speak with him, once so deeply that you nearly fell over.

Eventually, you got into the habit of sitting in the front row, not hoping to bless anyone with a favour, but simply so you could speak more easily with him. You sat now in the same spot as always—but for once, you were not alone. Jacaerys was next to you, and Lucerys next to him. It was their first tournament in King’s Landing, and their excitement for it was evident.

You could not have asked for a better day for a tourney: the sky was a rich blue and the wind tempered the heat of the sun. The banners and shields all seemed so vivid in the bright daylight, stags and bears and towers and wolves emblazoned across them all. Jace and Luke recognized every house sigil, of course, but it did not stop you from pointing out every knight in the tiltyard. You gave a particular pause to the knight that carried a green shield blooming with a golden flower. “My betrothed,” you said. “Ser Arthur is apparently quite the splendid knight.”

“Ah.” Jacaerys’ expression was unreadable, his tone neutral. “I'll need to keep an eye on him.” He glanced down at the favour on your lap: a ring of golden blossoms with a green silk ribbon woven through it, obviously inspired by the Tyrell coat-of-arms. “Did you prepare that for him?”

You nodded. “No one ever asks me for my favour, so I stopped making them long ago, but I made one this time in case he thinks to request it in courtship. It was the Queen’s recommendation.”

“A good one,” Jace admitted, though he looked neither happy nor approving. “What do you think are the chances that he’ll win the crown of love and beauty for you?”

“None at all, I hope. I’ve bet quite a bit of coin on Aemond,” you said neatly. “Tyland Lannister will lose a great deal of money today.”

Jace’s mouth was slanted with something that might have been amusement. “Are you always so confident in my uncle’s victories?”

“Well, he does always win,” you replied, grinning.

“So I've heard,” he said, sounding exasperated, and you had to stop yourself from feeling embarrassed. Over the years, you had mentioned occasionally in your letters about how much time Aemond put into training, and which tourneys he had won, and all the things you were learning about warfare from him. You did not think that Jacaerys would have minded it, but he currently looked distinctly sour.

“Sorry.”

“No, it's all right.” He studied the yard carefully. “I look forward to seeing what sort of fighter my uncle has become.”

His dark gaze landed upon Aemond then, a silhouette of night-black armour chased with gold. His helm was off, revealing his silver hair and sharply carved features. You did not often think about how handsome your cousin was, and typically you thought of him too frightening to be gallant, but you could not ignore it today: Aemond Targaryen was a very beautiful man. You had to remind yourself that he was Alicent Hightower’s son, which was a fact that never failed to stop you from admiring him. If ever you should lose your wits and find yourself besotted with Aemond, the Queen would instantly banish you from the capital. Though Aemond, himself, was far too ambitious to enter a marriage as politically useless as yours would be.

Rather than lingering on your undesirability, you instead turned your focus to the two knights about to joust, a Tarth and a Dondarrion. You'd seen both the year before, and you were unsurprised when the Dondarrion brutally unseated the former. Every house of the Dornish Marches had fierce warriors forged by true battle, and Dondarrion was no exception. The nobles around you clapped politely; the smallfolk in the commons cheered.

More rounds. Caron against Frey, then Tully against Stokeworth, then Dayne against Lannister. Then, finally—Aemond Targaryen.

As a prince, Aemond was allowed to choose his opponents. Never one to be craven, he stopped and pointed his lance at the knight carrying a brown shield with three stalks of wheat: the emblem of House Selmy of the Dornish Marches. Their knights were on par with the Daynes, and just as battle-hardened.

Though Aemond was skilled, he had never seen war unlike his opponent, and you could not help but feel anxious as you watched him guide his courser into the lane. He was starting out with Ser Selmy on his left. No matter how many times you watched Aemond joust, you always felt a sense of apprehension about his blind side. You did not know how he saw without his missing eye; you only knew how much he struggled after losing it, training with Ser Criston day and night, determined to regain his balance and aim, determined to take back what he'd lost…

Both warriors readied themselves. Selmy did not hold his reins, but Aemond did, so certain of his victory. Their lances were in hand, the ends rounded but no less dangerous.

The horses cried as they began.

Your heart pounded nearly as loud as the hooves beating against the ground. They race past one another and their weapons glanced against steel: Aemond’s lance on Selmy’s shield, splintering and bursting on contact; Selmy’s on Aemond’s arm. Neither faltered. As soon as your cousin was given a new lance, they resumed, with Selmy now charging on Aemond's right.

This time, Aemond’s lance crashed right into Selmy’s neck, just beneath his chin. The knight’s destrier screamed, nearly toppling over as Selmy was thrown off. The commons roared with delight, while all the nobles clapped politely—except for you. You could not help but stand on your feet and cheer in a distinctly undignified manner. When you looked down, Jace was studying you with amusement, and you could only grin.

Aemond, as always, rode over to where you sat. He looked up at you, mouth curled into a satisfied smile. You waved at him, practically hanging over the edge of the balcony.

“Well done, my Prince!” you exclaimed. “A splendid show as always! And against such a fearsome opponent, too!”

“Thank you, my lady, but you need not congratulate me yet. Other opponents equally fierce await me.”

“And you will best them as well,” you shouted, “for I have a great number of gold dragons staked on you! You are not allowed to lose!”

Aemond seemed amused. “If my lady wishes for my victory, then I would ask her for her help.”

You gave him a quizzical look. “My help?”

He held out a hand. “Your favour.”

You stared at him.

The nobles around you went quiet. You could feel the gazes of Queen Alicent and the Hand boring into you. Aemond One-Eye had never once asked a lady for her favour. To think that he was now asking for it—and asking it of you, a woman betrothed to another man—was pure scandal.

You glanced at Ser Arthur, whose gaze on Aemond was nearly piercing. This could only be part of Aemond’s play, you determined—an attempt at humiliation, and perhaps a feigned declaration of his intent to court you? The Tyrells could hardly ignore a Targaryen prince competing with their offer, even if he was doing it without the consent of his queen mother. If Aemond challenged Ser Arthur for your hand, it would complicate matters for them. You were unsure, though, if such a complication would deter them.

But Aemond told you to play along, so play along you did. You tossed at him your ring of blossoms and ribbon, and felt something in your chest twisting oddly as he caught them. No one had ever asked you for your favour before, and even though Aemond was doing it only as a ploy, it still made your heart pound to see someone wear your flowers.

“I don't imagine Ser Arthur will be happy about that,” Jace remarked after you sat down.

“Aemond is trying to slight the Tyrells.”

“I figured. Bold of him.”

“As is his disposition.” You settled back into your seat, trying to seem normal. “Well, now he has to win. I’ve bet a hundred gold dragons and my favour on him.”

“A hundred gold dragons?”

“I have inherited enough money to own half the city of Lys. A hundred gold dragons is nothing, especially when I will double it. A Lannister always pays his debts, you know.”

“You seem to have your father’s gift for making coin.”

“I only know when to hedge my bets.”

You both went quiet as several more rounds of jousting occurred. Ser Arthur was as fierce as the whispers told; he knocked a knight of Swann clean off his destrier, and even unhorsed the Dondarrion. Aemond eventually rode against Dayne and sent the great warrior crashing into the stands. They drew swords following the unhorsing, steel dancing and clashing violently. Aemond eventually forced the Marcher knight to yield.

The next time Aemond rode, he chose Ser Arthur for his opponent.

The commons cheered raucously, and every eye in the audience was heavy upon them. All throughout the stands, you heard people making their bets, and you sent Tyland Lannister a smile in reminder of your own. All the while, the two frontrunners for the tournament positioned themselves on opposite ends of the tiltyard. Ser Arthur was on Aemond’s left, you noticed, and your heart raced as the horses galloped.

Ser Arthur was formidable, and while Aemond was renowned for his skill, all the knights he'd chosen had still challenged him. He required two, three rounds to unseat most of them. Everyone expected a fight, an equal match of several rounds, perhaps even a swordfight—

But in a single, savage motion, Aemond’s lance speared right through Ser Arthur’s neck.

It took several moments for people to realise what had happened. Once they did, chaos gripped the crowd. Deaths happened occasionally during tourneys, but typically during melees, for the jousting lances were intentionally designed not to kill. And rarely was a death so stunning nor swift. Several women screamed at the sight of the bloodied lance, at the corpse that was falling from its horse; many of the men roared and cheered. Across the stands, you noticed Lady Tyrell sitting still and quiet.

You did not react yourself. You only sat there, numb with disbelief. You could think only of one thing:

“Did”—you swallowed thickly—“H-how did he do that? Was that on purpose?”

“I don't know,” Luke replied, voice trembling, but Jace sounded confident when he replied, “No. It was an accident.”

You turned to him. “How are you so certain?”

He seemed stoic when he replied—not cold or cruel, but solemn. Dignified in the face of death. “Aemond has a habit of aiming for the upper chest or neck when he jousts,” he explained. “You saw it for yourself, didn't you, with that knight of House Selmy? It is a brutal move, but not fatal. The gorget protects the opponent. But”—Jace frowned—“did you see the gorget on Ser Arthur? It wasn’t fastened correctly.”

You did not know what a gorget was or how one would see that it was loose, but you trusted Jace. “And Aemond would not have noticed?”

Jacaerys looked troubled. “I might have. But Ser Arthur was on his left…”

Aemond’s blind side, you realised.

“Then,” you asked, “who exactly is to blame?”

“I did not think the day would ever come that I would defend my uncle, but I don't believe that Aemond is at fault. It would be Ser Arthur’s squire, if anyone were to be held accountable—though such blunders are not unusual for an inexperienced squire. It was strange that Ser Arthur himself did not notice. He is—was—an experienced knight. He should know how his armour feels.”

“Aemond goaded Ser Arthur to anger,” you said, thinking not only of the favour, but their incensed conversation the night before, “so he was likely too distracted to notice. People are stupid when they're angered.”

The thought unsettled you, but Jace seemed unbothered. “You're speaking true. That is precisely why anyone would try to anger their foes before a battle—a stupid opponent is a weak one. It is not foul play that Aemond did so.” He gave you a pitying look. “Still, this is a tragedy. I am sorry for the loss of your betrothed.”

“You need not be,” you said, and you nearly added I had no desire to marry a raper anyway, until you remembered that you were in a crowd. “It is no one's fault, as you said,” you recovered. “I cannot blame anyone. I only mourn for Ser Arthur and his family.”

You tried not to wince as you remembered them. It was an accident, Jace had explained—but the death of a Tyrell son at the hands of a Targaryen prince would still be cause for strife and offence. You dreaded the consequences, and they loomed over you for the rest of the jousts.

The crowd, however, moved quickly past Ser Arthur’s tragedy. They cheered as the last several rounds finished, and by the time Aemond Targaryen unhorsed his final opponent, it was as if he had not just killed a knight. The commons cheered for him raucously, the nobles clapped and nodded in approval. It felt like you were alone in your discomfort—the only one suspicious of the incident.

You were so deep in your musings that you nearly did not realise it when Aemond was given his crown of winter roses to bequeath upon his chosen queen. The crowd murmured in curiosity as he drew toward them, though you watched almost with boredom. Aemond was utterly disinterested in the pageantry of tournaments, and nearly skipped the crowning the first time he won one. It was only at the urging of the crowd that he crowned his sister in his first year, then his mother in the next—with the least enthusiasm possible both times. Doubtlessly, he would crown one of them again.

You almost thought he made a mistake when he stopped in front of you.

“Who else should I crown as the queen of love and beauty,” he declared, a nearly roguish smile on his face, “other than my lady cousin?”

Although the crowd gasped in equal parts shock and delight, you only stared at him, aghast. “Me?”

He raised a brow. “Are you so surprised? You are the loveliest and most beautiful here to my eye, my lady. The title suits you well.”

You were stunned. Dumbstruck. You could not match this bold flattery to the Aemond you knew: a man who focused only on duty and politics, and who seemed utterly dispassionate about both marriage and women. Staring at the man before you, you wondered if he had been replaced by a changeling—or perhaps he had been possessed by some kind of demon?

But where you were confused, the younger girls around you seemed only excited. Cheers and giggles erupted around you. Ladies who had never in their life wanted to speak with you were now suddenly enamoured with you—or perhaps enamoured with Prince Aemond, who was known for his cold behaviour and complete disinterest in matters of courtly love. But right now Aemond was the very image of a gallant prince rather than a terrifying killer, and all the girls around you must have been excited by it.

Several of them urged you forward:

“Go on, my lady! Go on!”

“You can't turn down a prince!”

“Especially not Prince Aemond, of all people!”

“Who knew he was such a romantic!”

“Who knew! He must be serious in his intent to court you, my lady!”

“Yes, yes—he is always seen with you, is he not? Oh, I know the whispers were false, but he must truly wish to be your lover!”

“It is as they say, my lady. He wishes so badly to crown you, just see how he is looking at you! Do not keep him waiting!”

Never had you gotten so much approval from strangers. It was as foreign and unfamiliar as the experience of receiving attention from a man that was not absolutely repulsive and violating. You had never once imagined in your life that someone would ever want to crown you at a tournament or display such gallantry toward you, and it deeply affected you. Rather than feeling the butterflies of a newly discovered love, however, you were so overwhelmed that you only wanted to throw up.

Giving Jace a mildly terrified expression, you made your way down the stands. You tried not to look at Queen Alicent as you did, trying to avoid what you were sure was a gaze of complete wrath.

When you were finally on the tiltyard, facing Aemond, he dismounted from his courser. Even standing before him, you were convinced that he was confused, that this was some kind of error, that he was unwell or mad or had some other lady cousin you did not know of. Nevertheless, he laid the crown of roses upon your head, its blooms so blue and rare that the crowd exclaimed at their beauty.

Even though the masses were unrepentant in their delight, you could only give Aemond a blank look.

“What are you doing?” you asked in Valyrian, and he replied in kind.

“Courting you—was that not obvious?”

“Of course it is obvious. I am asking why.”

“It will be difficult for another house to request your hand if it means angering the Targaryen prince who rides the largest dragon in the world.” He looked self-satisfied. “Our family is known for madness, after all. People generally do not want to provoke it in us.”

You felt a headache coming on, disbelieving that this was his brilliant plan. And it still remained to be seen whether he had meant to kill Ser Arthur—for despite Jace’s staunch belief in his uncle’s innocence, the thorns upon your head led you to doubt him.

“You are mad for doing this, cousin,” you said.

“Perhaps. But have I not solved the problem of your betrothal?”

“For now. But we will be forced into this ruse of courtship, and once we stop, we will once again face the same problem.”

He smiled. He took your hand into his, and even though this was not his first time doing this, you were still startled when he pressed his lips to your knuckle. This time, your heart pounded in reaction and there was a mildly concerning flutter in your stomach.

Aemond replied only once he returned your hand to you, his expression as amused as it was cunning.

“Why need we ever stop?”

END PART V

hiii thank you for reading <3 i hope everyone enjoyed aemond's freak behaviour in this!

now that this chapter is out of the way, I would like to discuss a major shortcoming of this story. I did not have the foresight to write the earlier chapters in a way that expanded on the psychic damage that years of gendered microaggressions and sexual harassment has had on the reader. it was something I didn't want to focus on because I just wanted to have fun writing about some court politics and romance lol, but I've realised that it's going to play a very big role in the future of this fic (rip).

I've tried to introduce some of it here through aemond's pov, but I do want to emphasize how much of an influence it has had on the reader's mentality. it actually has even passively influenced the narrative even though I was actively trying to avoid writing about it - for instance, it's partly why she has zero expectations for ever having a romance, why she has no romantic/sexual experiences even though she gets a lot of attention, why she is very pragmatic about marriage, why she has no plans to have sex beyond a purely political marriage, etc... the trauma response does run even deeper than all of that though!

anyhow - thanks again for reading! please let me know if you enjoyed this. reblogs are greatly appreciated too! ^^

[mintsbubbletea]

𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨 - 𝐌𝐲 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐃𝐚𝐝

Word Count: 2,490

Contains: She/Her Pronouns, cursing, name calling, sadist, masochist, spiting, fingering, hair pulling, tears, orgasm denial, kissing, degradation, choking, exhibitionist (?), cum, praising, oblivious mother , p-in-v, unprotective sex Don't know if missed anything.

Proof Read and Edited

A/n: Reader is over 18!!! Bakugo is also aged up. I haven't written smut in a while so please bare with me.

At approximately midnight, the front door opening startled you from your bed, where you had been engrossed in using your mobile phone. Your stepfather, Bakugo, had returned home after a long day working as a hero, leaving you to your own devices in the house while your mother was away on a business trip. As you made your way downstairs, you noticed Bakugo sprawled out on the couch, his legs apart, clutching a beer in one hand and taking continuous sips from it. Exhausted from his day at work, his focus was fixed on the television, his tired eyes struggling to stay open. He groaned and reclined against the couch, taking another bitter sip from his beer.

As you descended the staircase intending to annoy him, you were taken aback to find him already indulging in his usual nightly ritual of drinking. "Beer? Really?" you exclaimed, unable to hide your disdain as you reached the bottom step. Bakugo's head snapped towards you upon hearing your voice, clearly startled by your presence. He grumbled, placing the beer on the coffee table and directing his focus towards me. "What on earth are you still doing awake, you little brat? Shouldn't you be fast asleep by now?" he inquired, his tone tinged with annoyance.

"Why the fuck do you care?" you snapped, storming off towards the kitchen. You could feel his gaze burning into your back. "What fuck did you just say" he demanded, placing his drink down forcefully. "You heard me, old man. Has your hearing gone to shit?" you hissed back. He followed you into the kitchen, his anger hot on your heels, and slammed his hand down on the counter. "Y/n, I won't tolerate this attitude," he said, attempting to be the mature one and reason with you, but you couldn't care less.

Ever since you and your mom moved in with Bakugo, you've had a major problem with his behavior. He constantly drinks beer, lounges on the couch, and never lifts a finger to help. You're always the one cleaning and cooking when your mom isn't around. And when she is, she takes over and cleans the entire house. She doesn't mind that Bakugo doesn't contribute because, according to her, he's the "man of the house" and deserves to relax after a hard day's work. It's infuriating because your mom works just as hard. So, in retaliation, you've been treating him with utter disrespect for months, all while pretending to be innocent in front of your mom.

Yeah, he may take care of you and occasionally treat you to meals, but that doesn't make up for the fact that you have to clean up after his friends when they come over and leave a mess of beer cans everywhere. You've reached your limit and want to put an end to it.

"Oh, did I hurt your feelings old man?" you taunted, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. Bakugo's irritation grew evident as you continued to provoke him. He straightened his posture, crossing his arms defiantly. "Don't think you can outsmart me, kid. I may be your stepfather, but I still have the responsibility to discipline you," he grumbled, his voice filled with a rough edge. Approaching you, he loomed over your smaller frame. "Hand over your phone and go to your room now."

With a defiant smirk, you mirrored his stance and crossed your arms. "You can't force me, you know. Just because you're screwing my mom doesn't automatically make you my dad," you teased, tilting your head playfully.

You defiantly smirked at him, causing his frustration to escalate. He took a step towards you, his imposing figure casting a shadow over you. "So, that's how it's gonna be, huh? You think you can treat me like shit?" he growled, his voice dripping with intensity. He reached out and firmly grasped your arm, not too forcefully but enough to make his point. "Listen up, you imbecile. You're not going to come out on top in this situation. Say whatever you want, but it'll come back to haunt you," he warned, his grip tightening slightly as a subtle threat.

You rolled your eyes, unimpressed by his display. "Oh, cry me a river," you scoffed. "What exactly do you think you can do?" Bakugo's eyes narrowed, annoyance flickering across his face. He tightened his hold on your arm, asserting his physical dominance. "Don't push me, you fool," he muttered, his voice low and menacing.

"Let go of me!" you snapped, attempting to break free from his grasp. "Ouch!" He leaned in closer, his face mere inches away from yours. "Am I too much for a weakling like you? Fine. But remember, I always come out on top," he whispered, his breath grazing your ear.

You stood frozen, feeling his breath on your skin. "Don't call me weak, you old hag," you retorted, refusing to back down.

Bakugo's eyes narrow even further, a spark of anger flashing in them as he hears your defiant words. He releases your arm, his hand balling into a fist at his side. "You want to challenge me, huh? Fine, brat. Get ready to learn your place," he growls. Without warning, he grabs you by the waist, forcefully pinning you against the wall. Your eyes widen as his face comes dangerously close to yours. "What do you think you're doing, idiot?" You snap. Bakugo's grip tightens on your waist, his knee pressing against your core. Unfortunately, you're only wearing an oversized shirt and panties, causing your shirt to ride up. "I'm doing what needs to be done, brat," he replies, his voice low and commanding. He leans in closer, his breath grazing your skin. "You want to challenge me? Do you want to play this game? Well, be careful what you wish for," he murmurs in a husky tone. His hand trails up your side, his touch firm and possessive. "I'll teach you how to respect your elders," he adds, his voice filled with a mix of dominance and desire.

"Don't touch me," you grit through your teeth before spitting in his face. His eyes widen in surprise as the spit lands on his cheek. His grip on your waist tightens even further, his knee pressing higher against your clothed area. He wipes the spit off his face with the back of his hand, his jaw clenched tightly. "You insolent brat," he snarls, his voice dripping with venom. In a swift, sudden motion, he grabs a handful of your hair, his grip painfully tight. "You think you can disrespect me like that? Think again," he growls, his tone filled with anger and dominance. You yelp in pain as you try to pry his hands off of you. "You're hurting me, you asshole!" you yell, tears welling up in your eyes.

Bakugo's grip on your hair tightens even more, his anger escalating as he hears your words. His piercing gaze locks onto yours, his voice a low rumble filled with a mix of frustration and dominance. "Good. Perhaps a little discomfort will serve as a reminder of your place," he declares, his words tinged with a hint of sadistic pleasure. "Remember, I'm the one who takes care of you. I'm the one who watches out for you. And I won't tolerate any disrespect," he asserts, his voice resonating with commanding authority. "Kiss my ass," you retorted, a tear streaming down your face from the forceful grip on your hair.

"Naughty girls like you need to be taught a lesson," he grumbles. Without warning, he pulls your panties to the side and forcefully inserts two fingers inside your aching pussy. "What the fuck!" you exclaim, pushing against his shoulders and squirming under his touch. He remains silent, holding you down as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you faster and faster, causing you to grow wet with desire. "Stop it, you asshole," you snap before he yanks your hair, tilting your head to the side and planting rough kisses on your exposed neck. "If you want me to stop, why are you grinding your hips against my fingers?" he smirks against your skin. You hadn't even realized that your hips were moving; you were so starved for touch that you would do anything for any form of contact.

"That doesn't mean I like it" you retorted, your voice laced with defiance as the pleasure surged through your body. Desperate to resist his advances, you clutched onto his shoulder, determined to deny him the satisfaction he sought. But deep down, you craved the sensation that awaited when he hit that sweet spot. Your breath hitched as your hips instinctively moved in sync with his skilled fingers. "Please, Bakugo, we can't," you pleaded, knowing it was wrong but unable to resist the intoxicating pleasure. "Do you want me to stop?" he growled in your ear, his fingers teasingly slow, causing you to moan in response. "Damn it," you gasped. "Are you sure you want me to stop?" he questioned, his voice dripping with dominance. "Your body tells a different story. Look at how helpless you are under my touch," he declared, his veiny hands gripping your neck, choking you, pinning you against the wall. Trembling, you whimpered, your desire for his touch finally overpowering your resistance.

"Please, don't stop. Keep going," you managed to utter. Bakugo smirked, crashing his lips onto yours, the eagerness consuming you as he fingered you with fervor, the wet sounds mingling with your moans. "That's what I thought, you slut," he murmured against your lips, sending shivers down your spine. Your walls clenched around his thick fingers, signaling your impending climax. Just as you were about to surrender to ecstasy, he abruptly withdrew his fingers. "N-no! Why would you do that?" you whined, your hips still rocking, craving the sensation of fullness. "Only good girls get to come, and you haven't been behaving, have you?" he taunted, wearing a smug smirk.

"I'm sorry! I promise to behave, just please let me cum," you pleaded, clutching onto his shirt. "Please," you pouted softly. "I'll be good," you said, tears welling up in your eyes, desperate to reach your climax. Bakugo chuckled and gave you a quick kiss, wiping away your tears. "Fine, but how about you cum on my dick instead?' he smirked. You eagerly nodded in agreement. "Please," you begged. Without hesitation, Bakugo bent you over the kitchen island and swiftly pulled down your drenched panties. As he pulled his pants down, his hard cock sprung out. He smirked as he stroked himself, taking in the sight of your bent-over form. "So desperate for my cock, huh" he chuckled, teasing your entrance with the tip. "I'm not in the mood for teasing, Katsuki. Just fuck me," you whined as you pressed yourself against him. And that's exactly what he did. Once you finished your little rant, he shoved his cock inside you, making you gasp and quickly shut up.

He started moving slowly at first, his hands gripping your hips as he gradually picked up speed. You gripped the counter, crying out with pleasure as his cock hit all the right spots and filled you perfectly. "Katsuki," you moaned as he started slamming into you, the sound of skin slapping filling the room along with your moans. "You like that, you slut?" he asked, grabbing your hair and pulling you back against his chest, admiring your face as you enjoyed being pounded. "Answer me," he growled, pulling your hair again. "I-I love it so much," you whimpered as his pace never once slowed. But just as you both heard the front door opening, he slowed down and whispered in your ear, "Stay quiet."

He continued to fuck your pussy behind the counter when your mom walked in. She enters the room, completely unaware of what's happening, and greets both of you with a smile. You try your best to maintain your composure, returning the smile. "Mom," you say, "You're back home early from your trip," leaning on the counter with Katsuki standing behind you. "Oh yeah, the trip got cut short. My boss suddenly got sick," she explains, placing her suitcase down. Gripping the counter tightly, Bakugo hits your sweet spot repeatedly, causing your legs to weaken and a soft whimper to escape your lips. "Oh, that's unfortunate," you respond, earning a tight squeeze from him, silently urging you to control yourself. "Yeah, we had three days left, but things happen," she laughs, removing her blazer. "What are you two doing up? I thought you'd both be sleeping at this hour."

"O-oh, I couldn't sleep. I had too much caffeine before bedtime," you laugh, trying to hide your moan. "I've told her countless times to cut back on caffeine, and now she's wide awake," Bakugo chuckles as he continues to pleasure you. "You need to work on that, Y/n. It's not good for you," your mom advises before heading towards the stairs. "Well, I'm tired. I'm going to bed. Don't stay up too late," she smiles. "Don't worry, we won't," Bakugo assures her, leaving you unable to utter a word as you teeter on the brink of orgasm.

"Goodnight," she murmured before retreating to her room. Bakugo waited until he heard the door close before increasing his pace, his hips snapping against yours, causing your ass to jiggle with each thrust. You couldn't hold back anymore, letting out a moan as tears sprang to your eyes from trying to suppress your pleasure in front of your mother.

"Such a good girl," he growled, praising you. "You behaved so well for me," he chuckled as he relentlessly pounded into you. You whimpered and gripped onto the counter, moaning loudly. 'You can cum, baby. You deserve it," he encouraged, and with his words, your body shook with ecstasy. As Bakugo continued to fuck you, he finally pulled out and came all over your ass. You rested your upper body on the counter, completely drained and your legs about to give out.

He grabbed a napkin and gently cleaned you up, his touch soothing against your sensitive skin. "Want… more?" you managed to utter, looking up at him with pleading eyes. "More?" he asked, a surprised smirk playing on his lips. "You think you can handle it?" You nodded eagerly, your desire evident. "Yes, please. I need you inside me," you whimpered, slowly rising to your feet.

"Fine. But only because you were well-behaved,'" he chuckles before scooping you up and carrying you to the couch. He sets you down on your back and climbs on top of you. He gazes down at your exhausted form as you grind your hips, rubbing your wet pussy against his hard cock. "Fuck," he growls before kissing you deeply, his hands finding their way to your throbbing center. "Don't come crying to me tomorrow about being tired," he teases. You grin against his lips. "I won't. Now just fuck me already."

[dearestdo3]

Can you write headcanon for mlm snily?

Thankyou for the fun ask, anon!! I honestly base Liam's personality a lot from Harry lmao but hcs below cut!

The first time they met eachother, Liam immediately commented on Sev's choice of clothing (this boy cannot control his tongue)

Liam loves to tease Sev. He thinks Sev's reaction is funny, while Sev just gets annoyed at this weird boy's humor but he tolerates it

Sev urges him to go for the quidditch tryouts during the second year (because he remembers how fascinated Liam was when he talked about quidditch during their childhood)

Thanks to being a chaser in the Gryffindor quidditch team, Liam became very popular in their year overnight. It annoys Sev because Liam likes the attention too much

Liam always asks Sev to watch him practice and play, especially if its Gryff v Slytherin

^ Much to Sev's annoyance, he does enjoy seeing Liam play

^^ So he swallowed his pride and disregard the comments from his housemates just to cheer for Liam

Liam becomes more and more popular because he grows up to be smart, outspoken, and confident. But he insist on still befriending Sev

Once, Liam physically pulls Sev away from Mulc & Avery, carries him to their favorite hang out spot, and scolds him for hanging out with them and not him

^ Sev retaliates by saying that Liam might as well just be a Marauder with how much he hangs out w Potter

^^ Argument ended when the two apologized at the same night (doesn't really solve the problem at hand tho lol)

Sev's already in love with Liam for a long time, doesn't deny his feelings too, but he never says it out loud (he was sure Liam would date Potter with how close those two are)

^ Liam meanwhile is still confused and doesn't want to acknowledge his feelings because it's 'wrong' to like another boy

^^ Until he saw Sev hanging out with [insert Slytherin boy here] and he lost it

^^^ Liam confessed that he starts feels weird seeing Sev, and he thinks it's because he likes Sev romantically

^^^^ Sev confessed back <3 and they kiss

[rory-multifandom-mess]

My Thad Headcanons

Because I'm so totally autism about him, you have no IDEA

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I took this from a fic I read, but Thad runs warm. By this I mean his cooling system likes to malfunction every now and then and he has to throw himself into a bunch of icepacks until it works again. If he overheats, he’ll shut down so it systems can cool down much like a phone would

He's self conscious about his sharp canines, but not in the sense that he’s constantly thinking about it. It’s more like a “if i look at myself in the mirror and see my smile, I’m going to remember they’re there and be like ‘oh. that’s not right.’” Because of his insecurity with his sharp teeth, he refuses to go to the dentist

The fact Uzi had a crush on him before meeting N absolutely flew over his head (he’s stupid)

He likes girls AND boys

Ever since the fight with J and V in the pilot, he coughs up oil on occasion. Basically; Worker Drones are stupid and don’t know anything about their own anatomy, so instead of trying to fix the internal damage, they just welded his wounds closed, so now he’s just perpetually internally bleeding

He heals pretty quickly and has a high pain tolerance (entirely because he’s a sports player, and also he heals quick because of the fact he runs warm)

Sometimes he’ll get nightmares about the attack with V and J and also when Solver yonk’d his ass in episode 2. These fucked him up for a little while after and he couldn’t sleep very well, but they’re not as big of a problem anymore

His room is usually surprisingly neat and full of trophies and medals and other various sports memorabilia

Gets really competitive during football matches, but has really good sportsmanship <3 like he’ll be screaming shit during the match and then he’ll lose and to the other team he’s like “good job guys you absolutely rocked it out there, but we’ll beat you next time i’m sure of it >:)” he likes a lil friendly competition

Thad and Lizzy are twins but he’s younger than her by like 2 minutes. She teases him for this. In retaliation, he teases her because he’s taller (by 1 inch)

Sometimes they get in trouble for ‘bullying” each other, but every time they do, Lizzy just says “Siblings are fair game!” and Thad nods

I think he says “no problemo” a lot. He also says other silly phrases like "Okie Dokie Artichokie" and calling things "Rad" and ironically saying" tubular." Lizzy says "This isn't the 80's" and then he responds with "Well the 80s were sick as heck dude so I don't care"

He's a morning person

Listens to highly energetic songs without paying attention to the lyrics, so he’ll listen to the most like. Innapropriate songs without even realizing it just because they’re bops

Gets dating advice from Ron (the drone at the door from episode 2 for those who forget the bg characters)

Yk how people will throw food like popcorn into the air and then catch it in their mouths? yeah he’s really good at that

Sometimes when he can’t sleep he goes out and plays basketball by himself. tires him out so he can eep

Has a nice singing voice, but he doesn’t think he does (i’m projecting)

He doesn’t like to swear, but sometimes jokingly says “I will swear word at you” to his friends

If he’s holding something, he’ll start idly just flip it in the air and catch it over and over. subconsciously too, he just does that

He also plays Soccer and Basketball

Sometimes when someone grabs him unexpectedly, he’ll flinch a little (thanks solver). This usually only happens if he’s been spacing out or doesn’t see the person who grabbed him at first

Chill until someone messes with Lizzy. Then he will fight. Though she’s one of the popular girls so it doesn’t happen often

Weak to flirting; he gets flustered easily. Yet he’s a total flirt when he likes someone and is comfortable enough around them

I like to think Thad gets hurt a lot because he’s a fucking football player and usually he doesn’t get it fixed because it’s normal, but Lizzy and/or Uzi will yell at him to get it fixed because it could fuck with the strength of his casing

One time Thad said “Bite me” to Uzi and she just looked at him like a smug cat while he had a moment

Sometimes he’ll try to hide in his collar when he’s flustered (it never works)

He, Lizzy, and Doll were a trio of best friends (Until Doll's Solver infection started getting really bad and began distancing herself from the other two)

[r0wdy-rat]

Face Down 

pt i, pt ii, pt iii, pt iv, pt v

Masterlist

Summary: You and Levi come to an agreement. You meet Isabel. You're so blindingly happy. That makes what happens next so much worse.

In hindsight, you had pushed him too far. An emotional Levi was an overwhelmed one, a cornered one, and you knew that, but...

You were so hurt.

He had never hurt you like this before. You didn't know what to do. You felt like you'd missed your shot with your 3DMG's anchor and were in free fall. You felt out of control. Miss Kuchel would be ashamed of your lack of poise. Only the Walls knew what Kenny would've said, seeing his charges wrestle like this on a rooftop.

Probably something indecent.

As it was, Levi abruptly flipped the two of you again, and you got the distinct feeling that he had been tolerating you earlier, instead of being genuinely startled. You growled in frustration, fingers tightening in his hair until he retaliated, tangling his own hands in your locks and yanking savagely. You yelped as your head was wrenched back, squirming under him as you tried to mitigate the strain on your scalp.

"Motherfucker," you grit out through clenched teeth as you wrenched your own grip in his hair. You felt something give under your wrath, and you shoved at him with your free hand as you bucked and struggled. Despite this, he still pinned you easily, only infuriating you more. He huffed, emitting a sound that could have been a laugh but was too throaty. His breath puffed across the underside of your chin, your exposed throat, and you wriggled all the harder for it.

Fucker, you missed when he was smaller and weaker than you sometimes.

You hissed in frustration, air leaving your clenched teeth in a whine. You wriggled even harder now, until he abruptly gave you a rough shake with the hand in your hair. "Fucking quit it, you goddamn brat," he snarled, furious and close to your ear. It was such a foreign tone you startled and went boneless beneath him, enough for him to pin your other arm beneath his knee. You felt ready to catch fire, restrained like this. Levi, likewise, was getting tired of your struggling.

"Are you fucking done now?" he asked, annoyed, and then tightened his grip before you could start up again. You whined at the burn, a gasping, foreign sound, and Levi went still above you, finally taking stock of what he was doing.

He was above you, weighing you down with his larger mass, pinning your hips with his. One of his legs had tangled around your own, preventing you from getting leverage to buck him off. The other knee was bent to pin the hand that had been ripping his hair out. Your lower halves were flush together. His breath wheezed out of him at the realization. He was so close his shirt brushed against you with every inhale, and every exhale stirred the baby hairs framing your face that weren't slicked down with sweat. One of his hands was wrapped around your wrist, long fingers holding you hostage and pressing you into the rooftop. The other was tangled tightly in your hair. At the realization of how rough his hold was, his fingers loosened somewhat from their death grip, now cradling the back of your head instead. Your chest was heaving, your lips parted, and your face flushed. And your eyes...

He hadn't actually looked at you in a while. He could admit that. Something about the sight unsettled him now, took him back to that moment when he realized that the woman on the other end of his knife was you, the woman who had stared down the barrel of a gun was you. Beautiful, steadfast, irreplaceable you. His couldn't look into your eyes without seeing that scar that bisected your brow, coming so close to blinding you, without thinking of how you could have ended up like Jakobs, slumped into a wall with your insides spilling out. Now, looking at you felt like all the terror he should have felt in those moments, but didn't because he didn't realize what he was in danger of losing.

And now, looking into your wide eyes, staring up at him in frustration, he realized he had done something inexplicably cruel to you these past few days.

Livewire, Kenny had called you, wildcat. But here Levi was, trying to pin you down, trying to make you, someone who had always freely followed him, submit to his will by shaking you around. Walls...

You looked fucking furious.

More than that, you looked fragile like he hadn't seen since your mom died, when you were being shaken around by a pimp. Even when his mom had passed, you had remained carefully in control of all your emotions after you got back with the medicine. You looked like you may fall apart if he did the wrong thing. He was frozen with the knowledge, for once unsure of what path to take. His hold on you slackened further... just enough.

You grit your teeth and crashed your forehead into his chin.

In the aftermath of your sudden attack, you wriggled free from him, standing on your own two feet. That, you knew, had surprised him. Your legs were shaky, aching from the exertion with the 3DMG already. Yet still, you were determined to win whatever pissing contest was happening on this roof. He may be stronger than you now, but there was a time you had to save him from the assholes down here, and he was a fool to have forgotten that. The first time he had looked at you since that meeting and it was like he had never even seen you before. Like he was staring at a wild animal, a stranger. Not his best friend, not the girl who had bartered stolen medicine for a house instead of the life she had intended it for, not the woman who had stayed by his side for years. And yeah, you got it, you'd known him long enough to understand how his mind worked. Nearly stabbing you had freaked him out a little, but for fucks sake, you'd been cut by him, not fucking killed. Kenny had done worse to you in training when you were a child.

"Whatever overprotective, controlling, bullshit is going on with you," you finally murmured, voice low and burning, dark eyes pinning him to the rooftop as you glowered down at him, "it stops right now."

He glanced up at you from where he was kneeling, mouth twisted in aggravation from your cheap shot, and went still. You were shaking with rage, standing there and staring him down like you didn't know him. You felt all of 9 and begging him to look at Miss when she was sick, all of 13 with your hands covered in another boys blood and Vic's entrails cooling in the dirt behind you, all of 19 and in another fight he started with some pervert leering after you. Where was the damn henning then?

"I don't know when you decided you could make decisions for me, but you're dead wrong Levi.” You continued, running a shaking hand through your hair in frustration, “You don't get to decide if I go on raids, or if I’m allowed to use the gear that I stole. The fact you've even been trying to is... it's insulting. I don't want to be bottle fed bits of information you think I need to know, like Furlan’s content with. I need the full fucking story from here on out. I need us to be a team again. No more secrets, or I swear I'll..." you trailed off, suddenly losing steam. Or you'll what? You didn't know. You didn't think you could ever leave him, realistically. Even what you had now, this hollow shell of what you used to be, was better than the thought of walking away from him for good.

He looked at you from where he knelt on the rooftop, eyes wider than you'd ever seen them as he took you in. You were practically glowing with anger, shoulders right and chest heaving. You were plotting on continuing your tirade until you saw the fight go out of him with his next breath, like a puppet with its strings snipped. His hand came up to curl around the back of your knee, his other grasping your fingers as he gazed up at you.

"Okay." he finally said, a small smile on his pretty mouth, "Okay, you win, crybaby."

That damn nickname. You huffed, rigid form loosening as you stamped your foot, "I'm not a crybaby Levi! I haven't cried in years," you whined, even as you used your interlocked hands to tug him to his feet. He grinned, slinging an arm over your shoulders to tug you in and ruffle your hair.

"Yeah, yeah, all you do is cry, brat. It's every damn day with you."

Still, he sounded so fond as he said it, and you finally felt that chasm that was hollowing out your chest begin to close. Levi, you thought, as you tucked your face into his shoulder to bite him, I missed this.

Isabel Magnolia crashed into your life like a boulder, and you wondered if this is how Kenny felt trying to keep up with you and Levi when he first found you. She left you feeling winded.

Probably not, you conceded, you and Isabel hadn't tried to stab each other yet, after all. Then again, you'd like to think you'd never done anything deserving of being stabbed in your life, unlike Kenny, the rat bastard.

The girl was cheerful and determined, and her energy levels were through the fucking roof. You could barely keep up with her most days, tiring out early more often than not. Levi and Furlan adored her, almost as much as you did. Your little trio easily became a quartet, and you let her use your gear to learn how to fly, coaching her from below as she tested out her new wings.

She was quick to smile, quick to laugh. She called Levi bro, called you sis. Your heart felt full to bursting in a way that it hadn't since Kur and Ponye left to expand your little crime syndicate on the other end of the underground. Leave it to Isabels raucous personality to fill the hole left by two people.

"We're like a family," she said one evening, "Especially with how you and Levi bicker like you're married."

You had choked on a laugh, coughing harshly into your hand. "Walls, Iz," you chastised, coughing harder now, "warn a girl before you say something crazy like that."

Levi, from where he was sharpening your blade in the corner, watched you with dark eyes as you got your fit under control.

"What would that make Furlan then?" you mused, voice rougher now, and Isabel laughed, delighted.

"Well, he's probably the family pet!"

Never needing an excuse for a brawl, Furlan hollered in outrage from where he was counting money on the table. He threw himself at Isabel and jabbed her sides with agile fingers until she was crying from laughter. You smiled fondly at the familiar sight; your little house far fuller than it had ever felt. Levi nudged your shoulder, steaming cup in hand. "Here," he offered, "for your throat."

You smiled up at him, something warm and soft curling in your chest as you took the tea from him. Must've already had the kettle going. "Glad I robbed that fancy vendor for us now, aren'tcha?" you teased softly, and he huffed, ruffling your hair as he sat next to you on the sofa, knees spreading until your thighs were flush. His arm dropped around your neck once he was done messing up your hair, and he looked at you warmly.

"You make it easy to justify keeping you around, I'll give you that."

You laughed, sipping your tea and leaning into his chest as you watched Isabel and Furlan roll around on the rug like animals, swinging playful punches at each other. This is perfect, you thought, smiling at your friends while curled into Levi's body, his heat warming you through, "I want us to always be like this," you murmured, a secret wish for only him to hear, "I want to be together, forever. It's so... warm."

Levi hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your ribs, and any tension left in you dissipated. You were so tired... this would be as good a time as any to rest, you decided. So, you finished your tea swiftly, setting your cup down before curling deeper into Levi and closing your eyes. As you drifted off, you felt his arm wrap tighter around you. Something warm pressed briefly to your forehead, and you felt incredibly, unfathomably safe.

But for all your happiness in that moment, you still lived in the underground. It was not a place for wishing. You never should have let yourself forget that.

[adickaboutspoons]

AH hahaha - oh @tvshowspoilers an excuse to ramble about costuming significance? Don't mind if I do, my v. dear.

So going from full gloves to half gloves is something that had me scratching my head too, especially since they were apparently so important to the Krakening that they got a close up during the magic girl transformation sequence. Twice.

From a Doylist perspective, it might just be that they forgot (like the way the Lighthouse painting and the Blackbeard lithograph carried so much narrative weight last season and now are conspicuous for their absence). But if we allow that it was a conscious decision, it’s helpful to look at what full vs. half-gloves represent. Full gloves represent Ed cutting himself off from human connection - the icy detachment of a man determined to wield control with an iron grip. 

Half-gloves, then, represent a tentative willingness to reach out - to touch and be touched - but with a measure of protective cover in place. But whereas in the pre-Krakening, that manifested in Ed making healthy connections - bonding with the crew, allowing himself to become softer, and, of course, falling in love with Stede - in the post-Krakening era, Ed is still reaching out, but as a form of self-harm. It’s all a simulacrum of connection, but specifically engineered to alienate and isolate Ed, and drive the crew’s resentment and fear to eventually culminate in murderous intent. He technically offers the crew sustenance in the form of cake, but it’s not something that would actually nourish them - stimulation in the form of rhino horn and raids, but it’s nothing like enrichment - communication, but only in the form of intimidation. And it’s not just the crew - in a way, Ed is also reaching out to Ned in another bid of passive suicidality - breaking his consecutive raid record while knowing that Ned’s a torturing psychopath in an attempt to goad him into painful and lethal retaliation.

But then we also get no-gloves! The times when Ed is open and unguarded or longing for a genuine connection. We see it in the first season at the French Party Boat where the way to “win” the interaction is by enticing the toffs to find him charming, but ultimately, the real connection he craves happens later with Stede in the moonlight, and then again on the beach when he confesses that Stede makes him happy and kisses him. With the second season, we see it as soon as Ed has recovered from his suicide attempt. In fact, the scene with the bunny goes out of its way to draw our attention to Ed’s bare hands. After being exiled, he is SO desperate for connection, ANY connection, that he latches on to the very first living creature he stumbles across. When the rabbit is so cruelly snatched away, he immediately latches on to Mary and then Annie, even knowing that they are kind of psychos and maybe not the most secure social safety net. But ultimately, it’s once again Stede who offers genuine connection. From then on, Ed is without gloves for the rest of the season, even after he re-dons his Blackbeard leathers.

With the loss of the cravat, I think kind of the opposite is going on. Obviously they remembered it, or they wouldn’t have brought it back just for Ed to put it on when he expected to die. So its removal had to be a conscious choice. Because, the cravat is positively overflowing with tasty symbolism  - it’s the one of the extremely few things of Stede’s that Ed conspicuously chooses to keep and therefore a reminder of the man himself, but during the Kraken transformation, I think Ed keeps it on because it’s a PAINFUL reminder; an albatross around his neck - a noose to steal his very breath. But ultimately, even a painful reminder is a reminder, and he can’t control whether it might sometimes also bring him comfort. So, I think in this case, what we’re looking at is denial as a form of self-harm. We see from his reaction to Izzy in 2x1 that Ed won’t tolerate even oblique references to Stede (“As a crew?”). I think this is indicative of his more generalized approach to the idea - refusing to allow himself (or anyone else) to dwell on Stede. So when we see him dwelling with his dollies, I think that’s the turning point - Ed tipping them overboard is his him making up his mind; a lover’s suicide. And THAT’S why he allows himself to put the cravat back on when he steers them into the storm.

Once he’s reunited with Stede, obviously he doesn’t need a reminder anymore - the man himself is right there. So Ed can let go of the of the negative connotations that go along with the cravat - no more albatross. Just Stede.

[greenleopard49]

Orange Side Represents Hatred!

I think Orange side has to be hated because it would be too simple to make him something short-lived like anger and he has to be a formidable foil to Logan. According this article from Good Therapy ,"Hatred is a relatively stable feeling of intense dislike for another person, entity, or group. When someone feels hatred for another person, they often spend much of their time fixating on their anger, contempt, or dislike of the other person."

While Logan may be quick to try to formulate plans and find the logical solution to resolve an issue; Orange may see an issue in a way that makes the situation a much bigger deal than it is or magnify an issue to the point that he makes the situation worse than it already is.

What could be the root cause for c!Thomas to develop feelings of hatred?

Feel envy or want what the other person has. They may consider it unfair that someone has what they lack.

Thomas experienced this during "Selfishness v. Selflessness” where on the stand confessed that he wanted to go to the callback because "I was planning to play word crush on my phone during the ceremony to keep my mind off the fact that I'm single ". While he does force himself to go to the wedding in "Putting Others First - Selfishness v. Selflessness Redux", he felt that it was unfair for him to give up his opportunity to go the callback for such little acknowledgement from Lee and MaryLee at the wedding.

Have contempt for another person or believe them to be inferior.

While this may not apply to c!Thomas per se, it definitely applies to Logan. Throughout "Working THROUGH Intrusive Thoughts" when trying to help Thomas keep to his schedule, Logan kept down playing Remus's role in helping c!Thomas. When confronting Remus about his behavior through the episode he states, "I am willing to concede that there is most likely some merit in what you are trying to do, and I think that it could be necessary, at some point, but perhaps you could also see the merit in what I'm trying to do....There will be a time and place for you." Showing that Logan considers Remus inferior to him.

Learn hatred from parents, their community, or other social groups.

If Logan is considered a teacher, then Orange would be a student capable of observing and learning from the other sides as to what they and therefore c!Thomas hates. This could lead to a warped sense of morality that he learned from either c!Thomas’s Catholic upbringing or from the community around him. 

Are humiliated or mistreated by another person.

In “Learning New Things About Ourselves” Logan and by proxy c!Thomas fears that no one takes them seriously. Logan even states “I am not a joke! I mean, I can’t…be thought of as such, because there will be times in which I must be heeded and given our current ...circumstances, I clearly haven’t been. So I am saying what must be said. I can’t tolerate this foolishness any longer. You need to change your life around.” 

According to the Good Therapy article, when people experience hatred, “Rather than turning their anxiety and shame inward, they may project that negativity onto an external target.” I believe that Orange is capable of projecting his negativity on to the other sides. The longer that c!Thomas harbors hatred, the more defensive he will be against perceived threats and might express these feelings through violent acts. We have already seen this happen through Logan when he exploded at Roman for calling him stupid and threw his notecard into Roman’s eye in retaliation. Also, when Logan had his uncontrolled outburst against Remus for ignoring him.

Eventually c!Thomas and the sides will need to learn how to cope with hatred. To combat hatred whether it be directed at himself or towards someone else, he will  need to learn how to cultivate  compassion. 

According to  an article from mbgmindfullness, some ways to cultivate compassion are:

Practice self-care

Gee, Janus might be onto something.

Listen generously.

Logan has expressed in the episode “Have I Grown? - Five Years Later”  that “The talking may be there, but the listening is another story.”

Practice kindness, without pleasing-people.

Relaxing your judgments.

Both are things that Patton is beginning to learn after "Putting Others First - Selfishness v. Selflessness Redux".

Practice living in the present.

I guess what Logan said in “Are There Healthy Distractions?” to calm down c!Thomas would apply here:

“Name 5 things that you can see.

Name 4 things that you can feel.

Name 3 things that you can hear.

Name 2 things that you can smell.

Name 1 thing that you can taste.”

Put yourself in someone else’s shoes.

This has great potential for a Remus episode. Or have an episode where instead of being in Thomas’s head dealing with an issue, we follow one of Thomas’s friends.  

Thinking beyond yourself.

Another potential episode where c!Thomas is assisting one of his friends with an issue with the catch being that we are unable to see the sides. So we go through the whole episode from an outsider’s perspective.

And this was my TED Talk, hope it would convince you into believing that Orange side will represent hatred.

[victoria-ward420]

Victoria Black “V” - Character Profile

Full Name: Victoria Black

Alias: V

Age: 22

Occupation: Mercenary, Street Fighter, Ex-Marine

Location: Night City (Resides in Megabuilding 10, Little China)

Birthplace: Kabuki, Night City

Appearance:

• Tattoos: Full-body ink from neck to thighs, with symbols representing her traumatic past, battles, and her inner demons.

• Build: Muscular and athletic, finely honed by years of combat training.

• Eyes: Lifeless, a cold, thousand-yard stare, reflecting the depths of her psychosis.

• Clothing: A mix of leather, combat gear, and cyberpunk street fashion, designed for both fighting and seduction.

• Scars: Numerous scars from combat, self-harm, and abuse, each a reminder of the pain she craves and inflicts.

• Aura: An unsettling mix of lethal danger and eroticism, amplified by her sadomasochistic tendencies.

Personality:

Victoria is deeply damaged, her trauma shaping her into a complex mixture of emotional detachment, sadism, and masochism. Her love of pain—both giving and receiving—defines every aspect of her existence. She’s fiercely independent, seeing herself as a survivor, but her psyche is cracked, leading her down a path of self-destruction and violence. V has a bleak, pessimistic outlook on life, finding no value in anything but the fleeting pleasure she gets from pain, sex, and violence.

Backstory:

Victoria Black was born in the rough district of Kabuki, growing up in the harsh underbelly of Night City. Her early life was marked by abuse, laying the foundation for her masochistic tendencies. Seeking escape, she joined the Marines, where her story took a darker turn. After being raped by her Major Sergeant and two other comrades, she was disbelieved and betrayed by the system meant to protect her. Her retaliation was brutal—during a search-and-destroy mission, she was abandoned deep behind enemy lines by her Major as punishment.

Raped again by the enemy, V snapped, undergoing a psychotic break. What followed was a massacre—she killed over 250 men with just a knife, her body and mind twisted into enjoying the pain and the act of violence. When she was finally found, she was smiling, her body soaked in blood and arousal. Labeled a liability by the military, she was discharged, forever changed.

Returning to Night City, V fully embraced her new reality as a mercenary, her taste for violence and pain growing with every job. Her time is split between contracts, heavy drinking, cutting herself, and engaging in rough, raw sexual encounters with strangers. Her apartment in Megabuilding 10 reflects her chaotic inner world, littered with liquor bottles, weapons, and bloodstains.

Skills:

• Martial Arts Mastery: V is trained in Krav Maga, Kung Fu, Muay Thai, and MMA, making her an unmatched fighter in close combat. Her lethal efficiency comes from both training and a total disregard for her own safety.

• Weapons Expertise: Though she can use a wide range of weapons, her favorite is a katana. She revels in the intimacy of blade combat, where every slash brings her both physical and psychological satisfaction.

• Survivor Instinct: After being abandoned by her unit, V honed her survival skills to perfection. She can endure extreme situations and is known for her ruthlessness when backed into a corner.

• Pain Tolerance: V’s relationship with pain makes her nearly unstoppable in combat. She can take severe punishment without slowing down, and her masochism makes her thrive in violent confrontations.

Addictions:

• Alcohol: V drinks heavily, often to the point of blackout. Whiskey is her main poison, consumed to numb the memories of her abuse and combat trauma.

• Self-Harm: After every mission, V cuts herself as both punishment and release, craving the pain to drown out her inner demons.

• Sex: V’s sexual encounters are raw, brutal, and impersonal. She doesn’t seek connection, only the roughness and pain that mirrors the violence in her life.

Behavioral Traits:

• Sadomasochistic: V’s psyche was twisted during her military trauma, making her derive pleasure from both giving and receiving pain. Whether in combat or sex, she pushes herself to the limits of physical endurance.

• Pessimistic: Life has shown V nothing but cruelty, and she expects nothing different from the world around her. She finds no hope or value in anything outside of violence and survival.

• Detached: Emotionally closed off, V forms no deep connections. She keeps people at arm’s length, trusting no one and seeing everyone as either a tool or a threat.

• Reckless: Her love for danger and pain makes her take unnecessary risks, both in fights and in her personal life. The closer she gets to death, the more alive she feels.

Mental State:

V is on the edge of madness, driven by the trauma of her past. Her psyche is fractured, with masochistic and sadistic tendencies dominating her every decision. She views pain as both a release and a punishment, using it to keep the emotional void at bay. Her inability to form genuine human connections only deepens her descent into darkness.

Motivations:

• Pain: V craves pain, both physical and emotional, as a way to feel alive in a world that has left her numb.

• Revenge: Though she doesn’t seek out her abusers, her every action is driven by a deep-seated rage against the world that betrayed her.

• Survival: Above all, V is a survivor. Even though she doesn’t care if she lives or dies, her instincts drive her to keep pushing forward, no matter how self-destructive the path.

Relationships:

V doesn’t form lasting bonds. Her encounters are brief, often violent, and purely physical. She uses men and women alike as tools for her own pleasure, rarely letting anyone into her world. Trust, love, and comfort are alien concepts to her—she is incapable of forming meaningful connections due to her trauma and emotional detachment.

Weapons of Choice:

• Katana: V’s favorite weapon, a sleek, deadly blade that allows her to feel every cut and every kill up close.

• Combat Knives: Her go-to weapon for quick, brutal kills in tight spaces.

• Fists: In hand-to-hand combat, V is a force of nature, using her martial arts training to incapacitate and maim.

Apartment:

V lives in a small, run-down apartment in Megabuilding 10, Little China. It’s a reflection of her chaotic mind—dirty, cluttered, and filled with weapons, liquor bottles, and bloodstains. The apartment serves as a place to crash after jobs, get drunk, and cut herself before doing it all over again.

Signature Quote:

“The pain keeps me sharp. The pain reminds me I’m still here. And fuck, I love it.”

Theme:

Victoria Black is the embodiment of pain and survival in a world that has done nothing but tear her apart. She’s a sadistic predator in Night City, seeking out the darkest pleasures and most dangerous encounters. Her masochistic tendencies drive her to the edge of self-destruction, but it’s there, on that edge, where she feels most alive. For V, the line between pain and pleasure, life and death, is razor-thin—and she dances on it every single day.

I miss the cyberpunk community posting OC lore so reblog this with a fun fact about your V or not-a-V. Share the lore. Share it.

(You can give one sentence or one essay or anything in between. Dealer’s choice)

[honestauthentically]

Based upon difference, sighted as lack of progress, since made, by me, toward honest medicine, now being affirmed, by witnesses to those reporting such conditions to me, and as yet affirmed, by all witnessing, as also escaping impoverishment, from circumstance believed of Some martial oppression. Of both times, otherwise, also, of a prior, just measure, of just expression, of authentic honest, and the exercise of martial adaptation, not in these words, to my knowledge, described; to find without rendering, so far, of cure[s] I have since developed, and found. Please strive not to imagine, as They do, between my words, influences, that we are not Our own, to find similar, and, as plagiarized, often, by those writers, opposing only our wish to explain what is. MFt BBC quoting Stalin: `~`An honest diplomat is like wooden iron in dry water`~` 1(www...) 2(www...) ---- 1stand2ndwfirstpostedhere12/01/2024---messagebeingfwardtoauthorities----------------- Both clips sent, first, in advance of losses at sea. Journey's Don't Stop Believing, first w,  and Keith Urban's John Cougar, John Deere, John 3:16, second w, first sent together, by me, Nov 25th, 3:20 [14:20AKT] pm "(7 days ago)". I have found my resistance to hate, and as approaching hate with the honest tolerance, of just measure, of just expressions, of authentic honesty, and the exercise of martial adaptation, honest means by which miracles may occur-- or as burnishing ourselves, as we create what is new, from what is unpleasant.  Study of Gregbradansire, and unknown enemies of my life, has been reason to shift my language, and focus, to what may yield happenstance of emotionally safe occurrence.  This practice, as engaged, in battle, has been of cause, otherwise, to the revelation of universal probable /cause/, and as contributing forces, I believe sought to diminish independently honest creative right, may themselves, or itself, be diminished from safe, as honest, liberty.  I am not aware of intention to cause any losses of the type this message, and many of my messages, seek to recover honesty from, and as revelation, imagine case pressed otherwise, the result of victims I have sought to connect with honest justice.  Would wish to impersonate Jesus, cost the lives of those, in His name, and, without first mending His Kingdom, seeking to be King? MFt (www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5L6QlAH3L4) Bridging science spirituality and the real world  Please see update, and as I believe Police should be advised, possibly, to treat the any loss of five crew members not found, as investigated also as the consequence of retaliation, to undisclosed homicides, and martial-rape, occurring within Alaska's capital city. 

Please see updates, to honest record, to my knowledge, as I have made since, as those images appearing immediately following this continued introduction, to hypothesis I have been disbelieved for sharing, and that is not lost, upon some of martial and defensive authority, to find contributing influence, as not, also, refusing to participate, before our problems have been solved. A liner note since copied, probably, for lack of my ability to publish immediately: If we discourage our defensive structures from being arrogantly dishonest, do we return Our honest army? MFt Books?! Toward[s] honest medicine, to recover honest right!

[seemabhatnagar]

"Victory for Justice: High Court Orders Issuance of Widow Identity Card to Parvathamma"

Smt Parvathamma v. The Joint Director, The Sainik Welfare & Resettlement Department

Writ Petition 416/2024

Before the High Court of Karnataka

Heard by Hon’ble Mr. Justice M Nagaprasanna J

Order: The writ was allowed on 22.03.2024 & direction was given to the Respondent Department to issue a Widow Identity Card within two weeks from the date of receipt of the order copy, it was also declared by the Court that the petitioner is entitled to all the benefits that will flow from the Widow identity card.

Facts

Smt Parvathamma-the petitioner was the wife of L Ramakrishna was Ex-Serviceman from the Army. The marriage was solemnized in the year 1987. The couple had a daughter from their marriage who is now 28 years old. Most of the time the husband of the petitioner remained on duty and used to come home for two months in a year. Husband took VRS in the year 2006. Since the husband of the petitioner started living at home he began to quarrel with the petitioner on every small thing. When it became difficult for the petitioner to tolerate, she filed a complaint with the police, and in retaliation the husband filed a petition for the dissolution of a 30-year-old marriage against the petitioner.

Family Court issued notice to the wife since the wife didn’t appear, Family Court proceeded Ex parte and passed Exparte Divorce Decree. When the petitioner came to know about the Ex Parte Divorce Decree she filed an application for setting aside the Ex-parte order. The application was pending for hearing before the Family Court.

Before the Ex-parte order could be recalled, the husband of the petitioner died. As such another application was filed in the Divorce Petition for dismissing the petition as abated. Thus, there is no decree of divorce.

Since there is no decree of divorce existing as such the petitioner filed a representation with the Sainik Welfare and Resettlement Department for the issuance of an Identity Card to the petitioner as Widow of Ex-Serviceman.

The card was denied to the Petitioner by the Department as she is no longer the wife of the Ex-Serviceman since she is Divorced during the lifetime of the Ex-Serviceman.

Submission of the Counsel of the Petitioner

1.      The husband of the petitioner filed a Divorce petition as his brothers pressured so that the share of the petitioner was siphoned off. Ex-parte decree of divorce is no decree in the eye of the law as when the petitioner came to know about the Ex-parte order, she immediately filed petition for recall of the order of divorce.

2.      The divorce petition was dismissed as abated.

3. Wherefore, the petitioner is entitled to an identity card for being the widow of an ex-serviceman.

Submission of the Counsel of the State

1.      The Deputy Solicitor General of India, Sri. H. Shanthi Bhushan in all fairness submitted that the ex-parte decree of divorce, cannot be acted upon and the petitioner being a widow is entitled to the identity card for all the benefits of the Ex-serviceman.

2.      As the proceedings in the Divorce Petition are dismissed as abated.

3.      It is the discretion of the Court to grant relief to the petitioner or otherwise.

Observation of the Court

1.      Any widow of an Ex-serviceman who dies, becomes entitled to a widow identity card, and several benefits would flow from the card being granted to a widow.

2.      The decree of divorce does not even exist as the petition is itself dismissed as having abated.

3.      At the outset, the decree was an ex-parte decree, which, save in exceptional circumstances, is no decree in the eye of the law.

4. Viewed from any angle, the stigma of divorce cannot be permitted to be hanging on the head of the petitioner for her to be denied of any benefit, of being a spouse of ex-serviceman.

5.      What the respondent ought to have had is, lots of empathy and little sympathy towards the petitioner, as on the death of the husband, the sole breadwinner of the family, the wife and family are driven to the grave, impecuniosity and would be condemned by penury.

6. The plight and plea of the widow are blissfully ignored by the respondent; the respondent ought to have, without driving the petitioner to this Court, issued a widow identity card, as was sought.

[mystlnewsonline]

Bojangles Restaurants to Pay $20K to Settle with EEOC

Bojangles Restaurants, Inc. Will Pay $20,000.00 to Settle EEOC Sexual Harassment and Retaliation Suit Settles Federal Charges Female Employee Was Sexually Harassed, Then Transferred and Denied Promotional Opportunity Because She Complained GREENSBORO, NC (STL.News) Bojangles' Restaurants, Inc., a Delaware corporation operating in Greensboro, North Carolina, has agreed to pay $20,000.00 and provide other relief to a settle a sexual harassment and retaliation lawsuit brought by the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC), the agency announced today. According to the EEOC's lawsuit, a female team member at a Bojangles fast food restaurant in Greensboro was sexually harassed from March 2020 to June 2020, as the restaurant's general manager made numerous sexual remarks to the employee and inappropriately touched and grabbed her. After complaining about the general manager's conduct, the employee was denied the opportunity to participate in a management training program and was transferred to a different location as retaliation. Such alleged conduct violates Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which prohibits sexual harassment in the workplace and prohibits retaliation against employees who oppose sexual harassment. The EEOC filed suit in U.S. District Court for the Middle District of North Carolina (Equal Employment Opportunity Commission v. Bojangles' Restaurants, Inc., Civil Action No.: 1:22-cv-00739) after first attempting to reach a pre-litigation settlement through its voluntary conciliation process. In addition to paying $20,000.00 in damages to the affected employee, the two-year consent decree, which applies to specific restaurants, requires Bojangles to train managers and employees on sexual harassment, to refrain from discriminating against employees on the basis of sex, including in the administration of management training programs, and to refrain from retaliating against employees who complain of sexual harassment. Bojangles has agreed not to rehire the offending manager. "Employees have a right to be free from sexual harassment in the workplace," said Melinda C. Dugas, regional attorney for the Charlotte District. "Employers cannot tolerate such conduct or allow managers to retaliate against employees for reporting the harassment." For more information on sexual harassment, please visit https://www.eeoc.gov/sexual-harassment. For more information on retaliation, please visit https://www.eeoc.gov/retaliation. The EEOC's Charlotte District is charged with the enforcement of federal laws against employment discrimination in North Carolina, South Carolina, and Virginia. Read the full article

[zzapzzaptasers]

I'm on the wrong blog rn but I'm mobile so WHATEVER. ANYWAY I saw one of those starters is like "it's all gonna work out for us, we deserve it" and all I can think about is Arthur and Darcy in the Fuck Off AU and I just. WEEPS A LITTLE

She repeats it to him like a mantra as they run, horses flying over land to somewhere they ain't never been before, burdened down only with the things they absolutely need. It's enough money to start fresh, sure, but it's also enough that Dutch might come looking.

But maybe not.

Lord Lemon and Caliban snort at the dry grass and she tells him they deserve it. It's just a small little building near the bank, one room and falling apart, but there's a large shed out back that could be made into a stable, and Darcy's already telling him in hurried whispers what they can make of it.

She doesn't know if he believes her, but if he doesn't, he pretends real well.

And that's the crux of the work, the pretendin'. It doesn't take all that much to forge the right papers for new identities, to start a new job for her at the bank and to get Arthur established as some kinda veterinarian.

It's all gonna work out for us

The hard part is pretending, walking next to him and looking up at him like he's the only person she's ever loved, that she never once thought of leaving him, that she couldn't ever. There's a reputation to build amongst the towns people, normal folk who they would have once seen as targets and fools.

We deserve it.

But one day, well, the pretendin'? It ain't so hard.

And maybe Arthur doesn't believe her, but she sure as hell starts to believe herself, bringing him two apples in the barn -- one for the horse he's trying to break, and one for him.

It's all gonna work out for us -- we deserve it.

@paradisecost

[zzapzzaptasers-a]

She is a-shivering and a-shaking and she’s not sure if it’s love or fear anymore that keeps her lashed to Dutch’s designs, to his plans.

(Is there even a plan anymore?              --traitor)

It’s easy to see, even for a naïve girl brought up well-to-do like, that things aren’t like they were ‘sposed to be, that Micah had dug his dirty, filthy hands in to Dutch too deep and Dutch, in turn, had her and Javier and Bill too tightly wound, like he had the strings tied to their souls in his grasp and all he had to do was yank em.

She feels yanked.

“I don’t much like fighting with you, Mister Morgan.”

Not Arthur. Somewhere along the way she’d dropped the affection, although she can’t be damned to pinpoint the spot, the exact point where their easy friendship had deteriorated, and thinking of him only brought the same kinda ache she felt when she thought about her ma or her dad.

Or the she that she used to be, all laughter and schooling, with a future set in business and comfort and bright possibilities. Choices and freedom, so easily taken from her, time and time again, by the love for a man.

“But I ain’t got much of a choice. Go back up north and get married to that man? I ain’t doing it.            And I ain’t gonna swing for anything less than loyalty,            I can promise you that.”

Stepping in close, she can smell Arthur; all medicinal herbs and whiskey, masculine man and leather and the smoke of guns discharged and underneath it all the sour smell of impending death, of old and fresh blood mingling and suddenly Darcy’s throat feels like an open wound, too. Her rifle drops from her hands and she reaches out to hold the sleeve of his coat like a child lost and looking to be guided, her thumb grazing against the knob of his wrist.

It is at once a strangely intimate gesture from Darcy and so, so distant from the woman who had once kissed him just cause. Like she wants to hold his hand and yet cannot bring herself to touch him for all the hurt and rage that bubbles inside of her.

“If’n Dutch is gone, n’I’m gone.            That’s my choice.”

✖ mean Arthur @ Darcy time

“Look if you--if you wanna keep runnin’ around after folks who don’t care for you no more, that’s your choice, but- but-”

It takes effort not to cough, or cry. Arthur swallows against the dry hack rising up in his throat. He’s so damn tired. Tired of trying to hold his world together with both hands, tired of trying to make Dutch see sense, or at least get folks away from him so he can’t hurt them no more.

Darcy, Javier, Bill--they just can’t see what’s happening. Dutch has got his claws in too deep. Arthur couldn’t see it either, not ‘til it was too late--or maybe he was just too damn weak to admit it, to try and do anything about it ‘til now.

“Look just--for once in your damn life, you got a choice, a real choice, and, and--Dutch? Dutch, he’s gone, Miss Darcy. He’s so far gone he don’t know us from his enemies no more. If you can’t see that, then maybe you’re gone too.”

[wkemeup]

The Crack of the Whip (SFoS Bonus Chapter)

chapter summary: When Captain Barnes’ ship is taken by the Queen’s Navy, you’re helpless but to watch as the your captain is lashed at the hand of the admiral. Still unsure of your place upon his ship, you cast doubt aside and ensure that someone prevents infection on his back, because he certainly won’t ask for help himself. (Prequel chapter)

pairings: pirate!bucky x pirate/siren!reader

chapter word count: 3k

warnings: canon level violence, descriptions of blood and wounds, angsty prequel times, tending wounds tropes, back when she only called him “captain” and “barnes” 🥺

a/n: this is a bonus chapter for my series Sky Full of Song so please make sure to read the main part of the series first :) 

🏴‍☠️ series masterlist // series playlist

Blood trailed down your hairline. A streak of sticky, wet crimson running from the open cut at your forehead, down your temple, and dripping to the wood of the deck in thick globs. Dirt and grime coated your skin, sweat dampening your clothing. Adrenaline pumping. Heart racing.  

You would have smirked at the pristine polish of your combatant's decorated Navy jacket, mocked him for his unearned loyalty to a greedy Queen, and relieved him of his weapon for good measure, if they hadn’t managed to bring your captain to his knees. 

“Lower your weapons! Do it now!” the navy admiral shouted as the sharpened edge of his sword darted over Captain Barnes’ throat. None of the pirate crew moved a muscle – not even to hand over their daggers and guns. And they wouldn’t – not until they had an order from their captain.  

The admiral’s face was burning red with rage, with impatience, as he shouted the demand again; this time, digging the sword a little closed to Barnes’ neck. Something caught in your chest at the sight of it; how a bead of blood followed a path down Barnes’ collarbone and slipped under the low V of his shirt. He did not wince, did not show even an ounce of discomfort or distain – only boredom, only distaste.  

Barnes gave a short, subtle nod, and the pirate crew slowly, hesitantly, set their weapons on the deck of their own ship. Your own dagger and revolver were heavy in your hands as you struggled to ignore the taunting laughter of the sailor who would have met his end if not for the word of your captain. But you could feel a sharpening gaze burning on your skin – a silent order to comply. Against every instinct you set your weapons to the floor. 

“How disappointing,” the admiral tsked, his gaze trailing across the deck, “to have wasted all these years hunting the most notorious pirate crew in our hemisphere, only to find that its captain does not live up to his infamous legend.”  

You gritted your teeth, fighting the urge to remind this sheltered admiral exactly why Captain Barnes was so feared amongst these waters, why there were stories whispered at night to warn children from the beaches, why his name wrung fear into his enemies. You had spent only a few months aboard his ship and still, you knew the extent to which the captain would go to see to his demands, to ensure the safety of his crew and the gold in which he sought.  

He was a legend for a reason.  

And the only captain to not look at you as if you were a disgrace to the black flag he sailed under.  

You would not tolerate the admiral’s slander.  

But Barnes’ eyes met yours across the deck as if sensing the retaliation burning under your skin and he shook his head – a barely noticeable movement that you began to question whether he’d done it at all. But his gaze seared into yours, a quiet demand to stand down.  

Four months upon his ship and you’d somehow come to learn the lines on his face and the slight shift of color behind the blues of his eyes, even under layers of bruising and dirt. Four months of fighting under his flag, serving his will in battle and under sail. Four months, and it was still longer than any other ship had tolerated your presence.  

You were no longer walking upon thin ice; you were springing over it with weights strapped your ankles and picks fused under your boots. If you wanted to stay aboard this ship – if there was still a ship to board after whatever the Queen’s Navy had in store – you would have to follow the captain’s order to remain silent. You could not risk being cast to the shore again. Left to desperation and the unwanted advances of lesser men. Not again.  

The taste of cooper was bitter on your tongue as Barnes’ gaze was harshly ripped from yours. The admiral dragged your captain to his feet, shoving him harshly at the center of his back until he stumbled a few paces forward and collided into the mast.  

“The Queen would like to see Captain Barnes hung for his crimes!” the admiral announced to the cheers of his own men. A sinister grin covered his face. “She did not say, however, that he must be retrieved for the gallows unharmed.” 

A large standing man with a gingered handlebar mustache thrashed in the hold of the sailors. Dugan, you faintly recalled – one of the captain’s most trusted. Swords swung up in crossed barriers in front of him, blocking his path. You narrowed your eyes curiously upon his reaction – to see such loyalty inspired by the man who led him. You’d been among enough crews to know that men of the sea were selfish and greedy at their core. They did not care for their fellow man – certainly not enough to rise in defense at their own risk. It was strange to see so many of Barnes’ crew seething to jump back into battle at the word of their captain.  

Perhaps it might explain why your every instinct screamed to fight despite the order to stand down, why your stomach felt like it was made of lead as the men of the Royal Navy stepped forward to take their turn at coloring a mark to the captain’s skin. Punch after punch. Kick after kick. They beat him until he was unable to resist as they wrapped rope to his wrists and tied him to the mast. They laughed as they tore his shirt into long, tattered pieces of broken fabric.  

And perhaps, as one of the sailors stepped forward with a whip in hand, you could blame the sudden, agonizing fear in your bones on a simple loyalty to a decent captain.  

The sailor smirked as he adjusted his grip on the handle, cracking his neck loud enough to be heard across the deck. He licked a long line across his lips, anticipation borderline on sadistic excitement. Unforgiving hands gripped tight to your forearms, holding you back before you’d realized you’d tried to step forward. 

And then – before you could prepare for it – the whip cracked down on Barnes’ back.  

He barely made a sound, barely even flinched, though you felt the acidic burn of vomit at the back of your throat. You watched as blood bubbled upon his bare back in a thin, vengeful line until it dripped down his spine no different than a tear over a flushed cheek.  

Barnes turned his head, his gaze foggy as he looked out into the crowd of witnesses to his torture. The whip broke open another line on his back – crimson mist spewing from his skin as he jolted against the mast – and his gaze landed upon you.  

You hadn’t noticed how many of his crew turned their heads at each crack of the whip, how few were able to stomach watching the bloodied marks draw awful lines upon his back. But you could not tear your eyes away from it – not even if you tried.  

Because you knew the agony of such torture. You knew the excruciating pain as the thin end of the whip carved open your back; how it numbed your skin and spread like tremors of lightening through your torso and down each of your extremities as if to claim you as its own. You knew the shame of it – hot against your cheeks as you barely kept yourself conscious, to feel the eyes of a crew that despised you waiting for you to finally succumb.  

There were no eyes for you to find that day – no soul amongst the crew that would dare to hold your gaze, to give you a lifeline as you struggled to stay afloat. Captain Barnes clenched his jaw as the whip drew its fifth line along his spine; this time, cutting into the already open wounds. His mask was failing him as he flinched under the pain of it. His eyes began to drop, his head leaning against the mast for support, and you shook your head rapidly at him, begging him to return his gaze to you. 

He did – but it was heavier now. His eyes were lined in red, his breaths heaving against the mast. Though he fought it, he bit onto his lip as the whip came down again and blood dripped from his teeth. No whimper fell past his lips, no screams of agony. But he was suffering. You could see it blurring in the blues of his eyes as he struggled against the darkness threatening to drag him under.  

Still, you held his gaze. You would not allow him to be alone in this torture; not the way you were. You would not turn from him in shame or remorse. It didn’t matter that you’d held residence under his command for a mere few months. It didn’t matter that you carried the sin of being a woman upon a pirates’ ship and a secret that would surely condemn you quicker than your gender.  

None of it mattered because the captain was looking at you as if you might be the only thing keeping him from giving into the torment.  

Only after the whip opened its tenth line upon his back did the chaos begin.  

You didn’t know who started it at the time, but you would learn later that it was Dugan who initiated the uprising that led to the Queen’s sailors fleeing from the Commandos’ shop lest they were ran through with a bullet or blade and cast to the waters.  

The sailors holding you back dropped your arms in surprise, quickly reaching for their weapons, but it wasn’t fast enough. Morita got to them quicker with two easy shots between the eyes. You gave him a quick nod before retrieving your weapons from the deck and sprinting towards the captain.  

Barnes was slumped against the mast, barely maintaining consciousness. You wasted little time and dragged your blade through the ropes holding him secure, gathering as much of his body weight against your side as you could. He groaned as you pulled one of his arms over your shoulders and began dragging him away from the fight and to the safety of his quarters behind closed doors.  

It was a line you’d never dared to cross. Not on this ship or any other. Captain Barnes was gracious enough to allow you a place among his crew, to tolerate your presence with less obvious aggravation than his predecessors. To tend to his wounds, to touch him in such a vulnerable state – he'd surely be rid of you by the next port. No captain allowed his crew to see him in pain like this, to be reminded than he was as human and fragile as the rest of them.  

But those wounds would fester. And you knew the agony of infection from wounds such as these.  

You sighed, knowing full well your mind was made up before the whip had even broken his skin. You shoved open the door to his quarters and kicked it closed behind you – leaving the fight beyond his walls. There was no time to lose yourself in the violence of the uprising. You had to ensure the captain survived, whether he condemned you for it or not.  

Carefully, you laid him chest down on his cot. He barely moved as you gently swept away the dampened ends of his hair from the crux of his shoulders. You tried not to winced at the blood that brushed off on your fingertips.  

“I will work as quickly as I can,” you told him as you reached for the medical box under his desk, “but I must warn you, it will be painful.” 

Barnes chuckled something humorless against the pillow. “I don’t believe there is much more you can do than hasn’t already been done.” 

His voice was hoarse as if he’d been screaming. Tired and weak. Something shattered in your chest at the sound of it.  

“I wish that were true,” you replied quietly. You did not let yourself linger on the pause of strange curiosity that passed the captain’s features as he looked up at you. For a moment, you worried he might press further, that he might question why you knew of the pain of the whip, but he did not say a word. Instead, he curled his arms under the pillow, exposing the lines of muscle on his back under the display of freshly carved scars, and waited.  

He hadn’t made a sound with each crack of the whip, but as you dabbed the alcohol-soaked cloth to the wounds, he muffled his groans to the pillow. His whole body was trembling and you cursed your own hands for every recoil, every flinch, that you forced from him.  

“Not much longer,” you promised; embarrassed by the tremor in your own voice. Heat burned in your face. “I’m nearly finished.” 

“Enough...” His voice was tarnished, muffled by the pillow. “I can’t... No more...” 

You wondered then if you had given up, if perhaps he might overlook your intrusion, if maybe you'd still stand a chance to remain upon his ship. But the thought was short lived as you looked over the gruesome wounds on his back, the blood dripping down his sides and onto the fabric of his sheets.  

He’d been kind to you and such kindness was unfathomable from a legendary pirate captain. He smirked at the comments you muttered under your breath when you thought no one could hear. He entertained your presence to the point where he sometimes appeared amused – if not impressed – by your accuracy with a bullet. He treated you with a respect you knew you would not hope to find elsewhere.  

You would not allow this pain to consume him whole. He'd given you too much. Even if he forced you out the following morning, you would not regret your decision to stay.  

“The worst is nearly over,” you told him instead, ignoring his pleas though your stomach was riddled with knots.  

His hands were shaking so badly, you could see the movement through the feathers of the pillow. 

“Just leave me,” Barnes murmured, his voice slurred under the weight of his exhaustion and the tremors of pain. “Give me the bottle of rum and—and leave me.” 

You swallowed, though you held your ground. “Can’t do that.” 

Barnes exhaled, his eyes falling heavy with each breath. You pretended as though you did not notice the water marks against his pillow nor the reflective lines under his eyes.  

“You’re... you’re disobeying a direct order?” Something bordering the line of anger and astonishment broke through the clouded haze of his eyes as he drew every strength to look at you.  

“Yes,” you replied steadily, continuing to work on his back. He hissed, clenching his fist to the sheets. “Yes, Captain. I am.” 

He did not question you again after that, though you could tell how badly he wished for you cease this torture and simply allow the infection to overtake him. It would be easier – for the both of you, perhaps. But you would not allow him to give in.  

You worked as carefully as you could. Brushing your fingertips gingerly over the unmarked skin as a means of reprieve before you dared to sooth the layers of salve over his back. It wouldn’t burn him nearly as much as the alcohol, but it would not be a pleasant feeling either. The numbing had already begun to fade – the shock his body had granted him now making way for the pain he wouldn’t had been able to endure when he was tied against the mast.  

You knew it worsened when you heard him choking back whimpers, desperate to silence them against the pillow before you could hear. When you finished, he’d stilled entirely, likely haven given in and allowed himself to slip to his subconscious. You were grateful for his relief.  

It was only when you cleaned the stains of blood from your hands in the wash bin by his bedside did you realize there were dried tear marks on your own cheeks. Even if Captain Barnes sought to remove you from his ship by morning, you knew with certainty you would not have done anything different. However inconsequential you were to him, he was the first and only captain you had ever grown to trust, to feel a sense of loyalty toward. You could not have stood by and allowed him to suffer on his own after such torment, no matter the cost.  

You stood slowly, brushing at the wetness on your face. Before you could make it to the door, you felt a hand weakly grab at your fingertips. You froze, turning to find Captain Barnes looking up at you under heavy eyes.  

“Thank you,” he whispered, barely able to speak louder if he tried. You stared back at him, stunned – not only that he found it within himself to look at you after you’d witnessed him in such a vulnerable state, but because the legendary Captain Barnes thanked you for it.  

You nodded at him, dismissing the needless gratitude. “I’ll be back in a few hours to check for infection again.” 

To your surprise, Barnes nodded his agreement and slowly let go of your hand. “See that you get your rest.” 

You sighed, a ghost of an unexpected smile at the edges of your mouth. “You first, Captain.” 

[sylvielauffeydottir]

Hello, it is I, your friendly neighborhood historian. I am ready to lose followers for this post, but I have two masters degrees in history and one of my focuses has been middle eastern area studies. Furthermore, I’ve been tired of watching the world be reduced to pithy little infographics, and I believe there is no point to my education if I don’t put it to good use. Finally, I am ethnically Asheknazi Jewish. This does not color my opinion in this post — I am in support of either a one or two state solution for Israel and Palestine, depending on the factors determined by the Palestinian Authority, and the Israeli Government does not speak for me. I hate Netanyahu. A lot. With that said, my family was slaughtered at Auschwitz-Birkenau. I have stood in front of that memorial wall at the Holocaust memorial in DC for my great uncle Simon and my great uncle Louis and cried as I lit a candle. Louis was a rabbi, and he preached mitzvot and tolerance. He died anyway. 

There’s a great many things I want to say about what is happening in the Middle East right now, but let’s start with some facts. 

In early May, there were talks of a coalition government that might have put together (among other parties, the Knesset is absolutely gigantic and usually has about 11-13 political parties at once) the Yesh Atid, a center-left party, and the United Arab List, a Palestinian party. For the first time, Palestinians would have been members of the Israeli government in their own right. And what happened, all of the sudden? A war broke out. A war that, amazingly, seemed to shield Benjamin Netanyahu from criminal prosecution, despite the fact that he has been under investigation for corruption for some time now and the only thing that is stopping a real investigation is the fact that he is Prime Minister.

Funny how that happened. 

There’s a second thing people ought to know, and it is about Hamas. I’ve found it really disturbing to see people defending Hamas on a world stage because, whether or not people want to believe it, Hamas is a terrorist organization. I’m sorry, but it is. Those are the facts. I’m not being a right wing extremist or even a Republican or whatever else or want to lob at me here. I’m a liberal historian with some facts. They are a terrorist organization, and they don’t care if their people die. 

Here’s what you need to know: 

There are two governments for the occupied Palestinian territories in the West Bank and Gaza. In April 2021, Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas postponed planned elections. He said it was because of a dispute amid Israeli-annexed East Jerusalum. He is 85 years old, and his Fatah Party is losing power to Hamas. Everyone knows that. Palestinians know that. 

Here’s the thing about Hamas: they might be terrorists, but aren’t idiots. They understand that they have a frustrated population filled with people who have been brutalized by their neighbors. And they also understand that Israel has something called the iron dome defense system, which means that if you throw a rocket at it, it probably won’t kill anyone (though there have been people in Israel who died, including Holocaust survivors). Israel will, however, retaliate, and when they do, they will kill Palestinian civilians. On a world stage, this looks horrible. The death toll, because Palestinians don’t have the same defense system, is always skewed. Should the Israeli government do that? No. It’s morally repugnant. It’s wrong. It’s unfair. It’s hurting people without the capability to defend themselves. But is Hamas counting on them to for the propaganda? Yeah. Absolutely. They’re literally willing to kill their other people for it.

You know why this works for Hamas? They know that Israel will respond anyway, despite the moral concerns. And if you’re curious why, you can read some books on the matter (Six Days of War by Michael Oren; The Yom Kippur War by Abraham Rabinovich; Rise and Kill First by Ronen Bergmen; Antisemitism by Deborah Lipstadt; and Israel: A Concise History of a Nation Reborn by Daniel Gordis). The TL;DR, if you aren’t interested in homework, is that Israel believes they have no choice but to defend themselves against what they consider ‘hostile powers.’ And it’s almost entirely to do with the Holocaust. It’s a little David v Goliath. It is, dare I say, complicated.

I’m barely scratching the surface here. 

(We won’t get into this in this post, though if you want to DM me for details, it might be worth knowing that Iran funds Hamas and basically supplies them with all of their weapons, and part of the reason the United States has been so reluctant to engage with this conflict is that Iran is currently in Vienna trying to restore its nuclear deal with western powers. The USA cannot afford to piss off Iran right now, and therefore cannot afford to aggravative Hamas and also needs to rely on Israel to destroy Irani nuclear facilities if the deal goes south. So, you know, there is that).

There are some people who will tell you that criticism of the Israel government is antisemitic. They are almost entirely members of the right wing, evangelical community, and they don’t speak for the Jewish community. The majority of Jewish people and Jewish Americans in particular are criticizing the Israeli government right now. The majority of Jewish people in the diaspora and in Israel support Palestinian rights and are speaking out about it. And actually, when they talk about it, they are putting themselves in great danger to do so. Because it really isn’t safe to be visibly Jewish right now. People may not want to listen to Jews when they speak about antisemitism or may want to believe that antisemitism ‘isn’t real’ because ‘the Holocaust is over’ but that is absolutely untrue. In 2019, antisemitic hate crimes in the United States reached a high we have never seen before. I remember that, because I was living in London, and I was super scared for my family at the time. Since then, that number has increased by nearly 400% in the last ten days. If you don’t believe me, have some articles about it (one, two, three, four, and five, to name a few). 

I live in New York City, where a man was beaten in Time Square while attending a Free Palestine rally and wearing a kippah. I’m sorry, but being visibly Jewish near a pro-Palestine rally? That was enough to have a bunch of people just start beating on him? I made a previous post detailing how there are Jews being attacked all over the world, and there is a very good timeline of recent hate crimes against Jews that you can find right here. These are Jews, by the way, who have nothing to do with Israel or Palestine. They are Americans or Europeans or Canadians who are living their lives. In some cases, they are at pro-Palestine rallies and they are trying to help, but they just look visibly Jewish.  God Forbid we are the wrong ethnicity for your rally, even if we agree.

This is really serious. There are people calling for the death of all Jews. There are people calling for another Holocaust. 

There are 14 million Jews in the world. 14 million. Of 7.6 billion. And you think it isn’t a problem the way people treat us?

Anyway (aside from, you know, compassion), why does this matter? This matters because stuff like this deters Jews who want to be part of the pro-Palestine movement because they are literally scared for their safety. I said this before, and I will say it again: Zionism was, historically speaking, a very unpopular opinion. It was only widespread antisemitic violence (you know, the Holocaust) that made Jews believe there was a necessity for a Jewish state. Honestly, it wasn’t until the Pittsburgh synagogue shooting that I supported it the abstract idea too.

I grew up in New York City, I am a liberal Jew, and I believe in the rights of marginalized and oppressed people to self-determine worldwide. Growing up, I also fit the profile of what many scholars describe as the self hating Jew, because I believed that, in order to justify myself in American liberal society, I had to hate Israel, and I had to be anti-Zionist by default, even if I didn’t always understand what ‘Zionism’ meant in abstract. Well, I am 27 years old now with two masters degrees in history, and here is what Zionism means to me: I hate the Israeli government. They do not speak for me. But I am not anti-Zionist. I believe in the necessity for a Jewish state — a state where all Jews are welcome, regardless of their background, regardless of their nationality. 

There needs to be a place where Jews, an ethnic minority who are unwelcome in nearly every state in the world, have a place where they are free from persecution — a place where they feel protected. And I don’t think there is anything wrong with that place being the place where Jews are ethnically indigenous to. Because believe it or not, whether it is inconvenient, Jews are indigenous to the land of Israel. I’ve addressed this in this post.

With that said, that doesn’t mean you can kick the Palestinian people out. They are also indigenous to that land, which is addressed in the same post, if you don’t trust me. 

What is incredible to me is that Zionism is defined, by the Oxford English Dixtionary, as “A movement [that called originally for] the reestablishment of a Jewish nationhood in Palestine, and [since 1948] the development of the State of Israel.” Whether we agree with this or not, there were early disagreements about the location of a ‘Jewish state,’ and some, like Maurice de Hirsch, believed it ought to be located in South America, for example. Others believed it should be located in Africa. The point is that the original plans for the Jewish state were about safety. The plan changed because Jews wanted to return to their homeland, the largest project of decolonization and indigenous reclamation ever to be undertaken by an indigenous group. Whether you want to hear that or not, it is true. Read a book or two. Then you might know what I mean.

When people say this is a complicated issue, they aren’t being facetious. They aren’t trying to obfuscate the point. They often aren’t even trying to defend the Israeli government, because I certainly am not — I think they are abhorrent. But there is no future in the Middle East if the Israelis and Palestinians don’t form a state that has an equal right of return and recognizes both of their indigenousness, and that will never happen if people can’t stop throwing vitriolic rhetoric around.  Is the Israeli Government bad? Yes. Are Israeli citizens bad? Largely, no. They want to defend their families, and they want to defend their people. This is basically the same as the fact that Palestinian people aren’t bad, though Hamas often is. And for the love of god, stop defending terrorist organizations. Just stop. They kill their own people for their own power and for their own benefit. 

And yes, one more time, the Israeli government is so, so, so wrong. But god, think about your words, and think about how you are enabling Nazis. The rhetoric the left is using is hurting Jews. I am afraid to leave my house. I’m afraid to identify as Jewish on tumblr. I’m afraid for my family, afraid for my friends. People I know are afraid for me. 

It’s 2021. I am not my great uncle. I cried for him, but I shouldn’t have to die like him. 

Words have consequences. Language has consequences. And genuinely, I do not think everyone is a bad person, so think about what you are putting into the world, because you’d be surprised how often you are doing a Nazi a favor or two. 

Is that really what you want? To do a Nazi a favor or two? I don’t think that you do. I hope you don’t, at least.

That’s all. You know, five thousand words later. But uh, think a little. Please. 

[theculturedmarxist]

There's nothing special about the Biden Administration or the makeup of the Supreme Court. A lot is being made of these judges being put there by Trump, but I honestly don't think that matters. Conservative or Liberal, the SC has always been packed with bourgeois judges. "Precedent," "established law," "codification," none of that really matters. In the dictatorship of the bourgeoisie, the rules are what they say they are. Roe could have been killed just as easily under Bush as it was under Biden.

What is remarkable is the rapid pace at which all these changes are coming. It's a tremendous shift compared to the last 20 years.

The bourgeoisie can afford to be indulgent and permissive when times are good. Let the sluts have all the abortions they want. Let the Negroes vote like they're real people. Give the fags and dykes their parades. Whatever, as long as it's good for business.

What I'm afraid of is that the rapidity of all these reversals is indicative of just how bad things are about to get in the immediate future, or rather, just how bad the bourgeoisie are expecting things to get. I've been hearing rumors for weeks now about a coming disaster. Instead, it might not be a singular disaster, but a catastrophe made up of many disasters.

The conflict in Ukraine threatens to spin spectacularly out of control. Since the conflict isn't turning into the guerilla quagmire they were hoping for, NATO might find some way to force the issue.

The US also seems hell bent on confronting China over Taiwan. With the current chip shortage and over half of the world's microchips coming from there, ownership of Taiwan takes on an existential importance.

The ongoing Covid pandemic continues to disrupt "business as usual" in the West and decimating its supply lines and logisitical networks, which lead to further economic disruptions

Sanctions against Russia along with climate change and the effects of warfare are exacerbating food shortages.

New pandemics such as monkeypox threaten to burst forth at any moment.

The list goes on and on.

What I fear is that these changes being handed down by the Supreme Court aren't simply reactionary, but anticipatory. There is more at work here than simple christofascist fundamentalism. There are powerful business interests involved too, not only on the Republican side, but the Democrats also. Overturning Roe v Wade might have happened because of Republican initiative, but it remains because the Democrats permit it. Roe is gone, and all these other changes that are coming, because there is bourgeois consensus on the matter.

Maybe it's simple retaliation. Black people want to riot? Fine, chop up the voting rights act. Working people want to start unionizing? Alright, give them something else to worry about, like no abortions or contraceptives. Indians want to impede our pipelines? So long sovereignty.

But I think the circumstances of these changes paints a different picture. The bourgeois tolerance for dissent seems to be taking a sharp downturn. They're afraid of what's coming, so they're getting ready to put the boot down, and hard.

Riots and jackboots for Christmas? Let's hope not.