#and an avenue for discrimination | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 22 days

Text

1968 [Chapter 2: Hera, Goddess Of Childbirth]

A/N: Enjoy Chapter 2 a little early! See you on Sunday for Chapter 3 🥰

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.4k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You are buzzed at a private party in the Rainbow Room of Rockefeller Center, Midtown, February 1966, chandeliers and candlelight, pink and red hearts made of paper hanging from shimmering strings and littering the floor. Your roommate Barbara Nassau Astor—yes those Astors, Astor Avenue in the Bronx, Astoria in Queens, “the landlords of New York”—brought you along tonight, and the chance to be swept up into her glittering existence is precisely why your father sent you to a school like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. Barb knows people who know people who know other people and every single individual in that grand design is wealthy and worldly and could possibly lead you into the generous arms of your future husband. You are from Tarpon Springs, Florida, heiress to a sea sponge fortune, and your father nurses powerful ambitions of intermingling his blood with the Northeastern elite.

You scan the selection as you sip your Pink Squirrel. You could marry a doctor and sit in the living room waiting for him to come home at 9 or 10 or 11 p.m., fix him a Whiskey Sour or a Sazerac, listen to him bemoan the complexities of nerves and veins before accompanying him to bed and repeating the whole process the next day. You could marry a lawyer or an advertising executive, and your fate would be much the same. Your own parents are partners in life and business, but you have seen enough to know how rare this is. These men of the Rainbow Room, 65 floors above icy streets radiant with headlights, want a wife whose hands will stay manicured and idle: nannies will tend to the children, maids will clean the house, mistresses will massage the knots out of the muscles of his back. And you—a relative upstart, new money among ancient bloodlines—will have no right to demand otherwise.

A man interrupts your reverie. He wants to know about the pendant you wear around your neck. You sigh before you turn to him; you resist the instinct to roll your eyes. And then you see him. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with a curious intensity and a teasing little smirk, an Old Fashioned in his grasp like molten gold. You don’t know it yet, but he is a senator from New Jersey, very recently elected, victorious yet still hungry. He steals the oxygen out of your lungs. He drowns you in the amber-musk warmth of his cologne.

“It’s Athena,” you say, touching your fingertips to the silver medallion self-consciously; and you are rarely self-conscious. The black polish has been scrubbed from your nails and replaced with a soft, shimmering champagne. You spent two hours this afternoon having your hair painfully teased and arranged into a Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo.

“Goddess of wisdom.”

“And war and peace. And math.”

“Math?” He is intrigued.

“That’s what I’m studying at school. Math.”

“And yet you are not disinterested in the humanities. You know Greek mythology.”

“Well, Tarpon Springs has a lot of Greeks, and that’s where I’m from, so.”

“Studies math. From Tarpon Springs, Florida. I’m learning everything about you.” He smiles, this magnetic stranger who has captured you like a moon lured into a planet’s gravity. He swallows a mouthful of his Old Fashioned, moisture glistening on his lips. “Do you like Greek food?”

You can’t seem to follow his words. Blood is rushing into your face, hot and dizzying. “What?”

“Greek food. Have you tried it? Hummus, tzatziki, gyros, spanakopita, horiatiki, baklava.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve had it. It’s great.”

“My family owns a house on Long Beach Island,” he says casually. “We eat a lot of Greek food there. You should join us for dinner sometime soon.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Very soon. Maybe this weekend. Are you free?”

No, you’re not; but you’ll cancel plans until you are. “Um, okay. Sure. And who…sorry, I might have missed it, but…who are you…?”

“Aemond Targaryen.” And he shakes your hand like you’re someone who matters. “I’m a senator. I’m trying to end the war.”

With him, you could be a part of something magnificent. With him, you could help save the world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Asteria is the goddess of falling stars, but the home of rising ones. On the north end of Long Beach Island, New Jersey—only 100 miles south of the sleek bladelike skyscrapers of Manhattan—lies the sprawling Targaryen estate. The nine-acre property features one main house and another three for guests, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a ten-car garage, a boathouse, a pier, and an ample stretch of beach that abuts the Atlantic Ocean, open water with nothing interrupting the infinite, miles-deep blue from the East Coast to the Iberian Peninsula. It is the first week of July, 1968, and your 23rd birthday. You are lazing in a lounge chair on the emerald green lawn and eating your third slice of melopita, a cheesecake-like dessert made with honey and ricotta. It originates from the Greek island of Sifnos.

“You two can’t murder each other while I’m gone,” Aemond says. He’s sitting between you and Aegon. His stitches have healed, the worst of his pain has subsided, his poll numbers have only improved since the assassination attempt. He has a glass eye that he can insert for public appearances, but he dislikes it; at home he wears a leather eyepatch that still unnerves the children. Tomorrow, Aemond is flying to Tacoma to campaign ahead of the Washington State Convention on the 13th. Most of the family will be joining him, with only three Targaryens remaining at Asteria: ailing Viserys, useless Aegon, and you, officially too pregnant to travel by plane. You are wearing a floral, flowing, two-piece swimsuit. The sun is blazing in a clear sky. The record player is piping out Time Of The Season by the Zombies.

Aegon waves a hand flippantly, then adjusts his preposterously large blue-tinted plastic sunglasses; he is shirtless, flabby, very sunburned. “I’ll barely be here.”

Aemond looks over at him, amused. “Oh yeah? And what pressing engagements do you have to attend to? I’d love to know.”

You take a bite of your melopita and scatter crumbs across the swell of your belly: seven and a half months along. “I’m sure the prostitutes miss him.”

“They do,” Aegon snaps. “I’m their favorite customer.”

“Well you’re a reprieve for them. It’s always over so quickly.”

Aemond is snickering. Aegon says to him: “23, huh? A 13-year age difference. She could almost be your daughter.”

“And 17 years younger than you. She could definitely be yours.”

“That’s how Aegon likes his girls,” you say. “Too inexperienced to recognize end-stage degeneracy. Still stumbling their way through Shakespeare for English class.”

“Why can’t she stay at the brownstone?” Aegon asks irritably. Aemond owns a historic townhouse in Georgetown for when Congress is in session, though he’s rarely been there since he announced that he was running for president.

“Because Doxie is here to make sure she’s taken care of,” Aemond replies. Eudoxia has been the head housekeeper of Asteria for decades, a formidable battleaxe of a woman who speaks very little English and has a seemingly endless supply of patterned scarves to wrap around her ink black dyed hair. There currently aren’t any permanent staff stationed at the brownstone, and Aemond does not trust strangers. “And because my future first lady is hosting a tea party on the 10th.”

“A tea party!” Aegon gasps, mocking you. “Surely that will patch the wounds of our troubled nation. She’s an inspiration. She’s motherfucking Gloria Steinem.”

“She’s Aphrodite,” Aemond says, beaming with pride, his remaining eye fixed on your belly. He’s lost one piece of himself, but in a month and a half he’ll gain another. “Goddess of love.”

“There must be a more appropriate mythological character. Medusa, perhaps. Lyssa was the goddess of rabies, Epiales was the goddess of nightmares.”

“Aegon, I had no idea you were so…” You search for the right word. “Literate.”

“Io was turned into a cow.” He grins at you, toothy, malicious.

“She’s also one of Jupiter’s moons,” Aemond muses. He draws invisible orbits in the air with his long, graceful fingers. “Beautiful, celestial, pristine…”

“A satellite,” Aegon says. “Mindless. Aimless. Going wherever she’s told.”

Aemond insists as he twists the bracelet around your right wrist, a delicate gold chain he bought during your honeymoon in Hawaii: “Aphrodite.”

“Didn’t she fuck around with, like, everyone?”

“Maybe you should be Aphrodite,” you tell Aegon.

Mimi appears, tottering across the lawn with the straps of her sundress sliding off her shoulders and her Gimlet sloshing precariously in its glass. The children are playing in the surf with the nannies and Fosco, who is entertaining them by diving for seashells and delivering his treasures into their tiny, grasping palms. Criston is supervising from the sand, though he steals frequent glimpses of Alicent as she feeds a wheelchair-bound Viserys—much diminished after a number of strokes—his own slice of melopita, one careful, patient spoonful at a time. “Can we…” Mimi bursts out laughing and almost falls over. She claws her way upright again using the back of Aegon’s chair. “Um…I was thinking…”

“What?” Aegon asks, annoyed, avoidant. If they’ve ever been happy, it was a transient epoch that came and went long before you joined the family. It was before the asteroid killed the dinosaurs.

“We should go back to Mykonos. We had such a nice time in Mykonos. Didn’t we? Didn’t we just adore Mykonos?”

Aegon sighs, glowering out over the ocean. “Yeah, we sure did. Ten years ago.”

“Exactly!” Mimi gushes, oblivious. “When can we go? Next week? Let’s go next week.”

“Mimi, you and the kids will be in Washington, remember?” Aemond says. Alicent will have to be her handler; usually it’s your job to make sure Mimi is ready for photos, eats enough to stay conscious, doesn’t trip over her own feet, doesn’t talk too much to the press.

“Washington?” Like she’s never heard of it.

“The state. Not the city. For the convention.”

“Oh right. Right.” She gulps her Gimlet. You could set your watch by Mimi’s drinking. Tipsy by lunch, drunk at dinner, crawling on the floor chasing the dogs around by 8 p.m. The Targaryens keep a drove of Alopekis, small and white and foxlike. “Well…maybe some other time.”

“After the election,” Aemond says with an abiding, encouraging smile. He tolerates Mimi because he needs her: happy wholesome family, American Dream. Down at the water’s edge, the nannies are giving towels to Fosco and the children as they scamper out of the frothing waves, Mimi’s five and Helaena’s three: Daphne, Neaera—no one can ever seem to spell her name correctly, least of all the six-year-old girl herself—and Evangelos.

Mimi departs, on the hunt for a fresh Gimlet. Aegon reaches into the pocket of his swim trunks—Hawaiian print, royal blue—and pulls out a joint and a Zippo. He sticks the joint between his teeth and goes to light it.

“No,” Aemond says immediately, yanking the joint out of Aegon’s mouth and stomping it into the earth. Then he points down the beach towards the sand dunes. “You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.”

“They can’t tell what I’m smoking!”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“You know there are teenagers getting their limbs blown off in Vietnam right now? I think society has bigger problems than me smoking grass.”

“And yet to solve those bigger problems, I have to win in November. And the suburban housewives will not vote for me if they think I support legalizing marijuana. Trust me, I know. I’ve met them.”

“I wouldn’t want those people’s votes,” Aegon says derisively.

“You’d rather Nixon get them?”

Aegon doesn’t have a speedy rebuttal this time. He contemplates the Atlantic Ocean, the wind tearing at his hair.

“It’s hot as hell,” Aemond says to you, gathering up the newspapers he’s been leafing through, never not thinking about the election, never not strategizing. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

As you accompany Aemond towards the main house—and of course you follow him, always, anywhere—Alicent waves you over to where she and Viserys are sitting to wish you a happy birthday again. From this vantage point, you can just barely spot Otto and Helaena strolling through her garden, a jungle of butterfly bushes and herbs. The stricken Targaryen patriarch beams at the swell of your belly. Viserys likes you, you are his favorite daughter-in-law, though perhaps this is not so lofty an achievement. Moreover, he likes that you are carrying the child of his decent son. Aemond has already decided on the baby’s name: Aristos Apollo. If it is in fact a boy, you suppose you’ll call him Ari, but he doesn’t feel real to you yet. He belongs to Aemond, to the Targaryens, to the nation, but not quite to you. He is more myth than flesh.

“Nothing is more precious than children,” Viserys tells Aemond, raspy and frail. “I would have had at least five more if I could.” Alicent bows her head, an acknowledgement of her failure in this regard. Viserys expects it. You and Aemond politely avert your gazes.

“Thank God for this baby,” Alicent says. “After the year we’ve had? That the whole world has had? We all need something to be grateful for.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, smiling. It must be the promise of a son that has made his maiming go down smoother, and maybe it is his soaring poll numbers too, and maybe it is gratitude that he escaped with his life, and maybe it is even the fact that he has you.

But long after dusk when you’re getting ready for bed—slathering yourself in Jergens, stepping into your chiffon nightgown—as you pass through the sliver of light pouring out of the bathroom, you catch a glimpse of something that stops you. Aemond is standing in front of the mirror with his hands on the rim of the sink, his eyepatch slung over the towel rack, his voided eye socket exposed and gory and irreparably wounded. There’s something in his scarred face that you can’t recall ever seeing before. There is a seething, secret, animal rage. There is fury for everyone who has ever denied him anything.

You remember who you were before you met Aemond at the Rainbow Room in Manhattan at a party you were almost not illustrious enough to attend. You wore your hair long and loose, you downed shots, you smoked, you swore, you slept through class almost every Monday; and then you packed all of this away in your allegorical attic and became someone who could stand beside a senator, and then a candidate, and then a president, someone who could tip the scales of fate.

And you think as you lurk unnoticed in the doorway: Maybe he’s been hiding parts of himself too.

~~~~~~~~~~

July 10th, 10 a.m. He’s snoring on a couch in the living room, the one patterned with sailboats. He’s hugging his acoustic guitar like a child clinging to a teddy bear. Sometimes he plays it for the kids: Get Rhythm, Twist And Shout, Stand By Me, You Can’t Hurry Love. That’s about the extent of his involvement in their lives. He has a law degree from Columbia that his father bought for him. Aside from a brief and disastrous stint as the mayor of Trenton, he has never been gainfully employed. You pour the cupful of ice cubes you collected from the freezer all over his bare chest.

“What the fuck!” Aegon screams as he startles awake. “What is wrong with you?!”

“The guests are arriving in two hours. And you’re going to help me host.”

“I’m not slobbering at the feet of those manicured elitists.”

“It’s easy to say ‘vive la révolution’ from your family’s mansion that you reside in as a professional failure.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m so worthless. If only I spent more time hosting tea parties.”

“I can’t small talk with governors and congressmen, so I have to charm their wives instead. That’s how it works, you idiot.”

Aegon rolls off the couch and rubs his forehead, wincing, hungover. In the dining room, Eudoxia is readying cups and plates, polishing silverware, folding napkins. The caterers will be here soon, and there are also three dishes that you made yourself: stafidopsomo, a bread with raisins and cinnamon; rizogalo, Greek-style rice pudding; and baklava you spent hours chopping walnuts for. At least one show of domestic prowess is an expectation, two is impressive, three is above and beyond, something for the other political wives to chatter about. You know the importance of making a good impression on them. They are as much a part of their husbands’ careers as the speech writers, communication directors, fundraisers. “I need a Bloody Mary,” Aegon groans.

“You need to pull your goddamn weight. Everyone else is working to get Aemond elected. Your five-year-old kid is out on the campaign trail and you can’t walk around with a tray of hummus and mini spanakopitas? Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious,” he says, standing with some difficulty and then shoving by you. “Fuck off, Miss America.”

“Aegon!”

But he’s padding off towards the kitchen with his bare feet, tiki print boxer shorts, bedraggled hair. You follow after him in your spotless white heels and sundress patterned with common blue violets. Your earrings are pearls. You’ve wrangled your hair into a tidy French twist. Aegon is getting a pitcher of tomato juice out of the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka from a cardboard Apple Jacks box. He keeps booze and pills hidden everywhere; you’re always stumbling across his caches.

You open your mouth to unleash something hurtful, something hateful, but then you feel the cold flare of liquid on your thighs as the ocean breeze gusts in through the windows. My dress, you think, alarmed. What did I spill on it? One of the ice cubes you threw at Aegon must have caught on the skirt somehow and melted. That’s your first guess, and it is welcome; water doesn’t stain, and you aren’t sure if you have another outfit that is both formal enough and will still fit you. But when you reach down to touch your leg—now the liquid reaches your knees—your hand comes away red.

You look up at Aegon. He’s staring back at you, thunderstruck, horrified. His Bloody Mary ingredients are now forgotten on the countertop. He shouts for the housekeeper: “Doxie?!”

There is indistinct, cantankerous Greek grumbling in return.

“Doxie! Call an ambulance!”

“I don’t understand,” you say to Aegon, bright clotless blood dyeing the whirls of your fingerprints. I ruined my dress, you think nonsensically. “It doesn’t hurt. Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Don’t move, don’t do anything, just wait for the paramedics.”

But the edges of your vision are going dark and hazy, and the room spins like a flipped coin. Your knees and ankles fold, bones turned to paper. As you drop, Aegon dives for you. You clutch at him, but there’s nothing to grab onto, no suit jacket, no tie, only skin that glows with sunburn. “If I don’t wake up, tell Aemond—”

“You’re not dying, bitch. My luck’s not that good.”

But his eyes are panicked; and they are the last thing you see before you black out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arteries of cement, bones like lead, heavy eyelids opening to reveal strange white walls.

Am I dead?

But no: you hurt all over. Heaven isn’t supposed to hurt. There are needles pierced through the backs of your hands, a splitting rawness in your throat.

Was I intubated? Did I have surgery…?

You try to sit up. The pain is blinding; the severed and sutured latticework of your abdominal muscles is a pit of glass. You gasp, moan plaintively, fumble for the nurse call button on the wooden nightstand.

“Will you stop moving?” Aegon says as he walks into the room. He’s slurping on a straw that pokes out from a Dairy Queen cup. The fluid inside is clumpy and red. Instantly, you think of blood, and a wave of nausea punches through the shredded gore that was once your belly. Aegon flops down into the salmon pink armchair beside the bed and props his combat boots up on the ottoman. “They sliced you up like the Black Dahlia. You’re gonna rip your stitches.”

“They did a c-section…?”

“Yeah, you had some kind of uterus…thing. I don’t remember.”

The baby?? Is the baby alright?? “An abruption?”

More slurping. “No…I think it started with a P.”

“Previa?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You remember waking up a few times: on the kitchen floor as men were lifting you, in an ambulance as the siren shrieked. Someone said you were being taken to Mount Sinai in Manhattan. And that makes sense, that would have been Criston’s plan. Mount Sinai is one of the best hospitals in the country. You look around the room for a bassinet or a crib. Instead you see a wheelchair and a myriad of flower bouquets; word has already gotten out, and so the customary well wishes are pouring in. Lady Bird Johnson sent bluebonnets, the state flower of Texas; Abigail McCarthy sent lilies of the valley; Muriel Humphrey sent roses, traditional, safe, uninspiring; Pat Nixon sent blood orange gladioli. Mrs. Wallace, newly deceased, neglected to call a florist. “Where’s the baby?”

“He’s fine. He’s downstairs in an incubator.”

Ari, you think, though he still doesn’t seem real yet. “What…?”

“His lungs are underdeveloped. But the doctors think he’ll be alright. You want a Mr. Misty? There’s a Dairy Queen like two blocks from here.”

“No, I don’t want a Mr. Misty,” you say, incredulous. “I want to see the baby.”

“Well they can’t move him and they can’t move you, so you’ll have to wait.”

“I’m going to see him—” You swing your feet off the bed and feel daggers, fire, a splintering like someone has taken a hammer to your bones. You almost scream; it takes everything in you to choke it down and only gasp as your flesh becomes an inferno. I want a joint, you think randomly, an urge you’d believed you had exorcised from yourself, an archaic relic of a past life.

“Told you,” Aegon says smugly.

You lie panting, helpless, glancing at the phone on the nightstand. “Aemond knows?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve called everyone. He knows.”

“Good. So he’ll be here soon.”

“Sure,” Aegon says, perhaps a tad noncommittally.

“Okay.” You’re still trying to catch your breath. Tacoma is a six hour flight away. Even if Aemond doesn’t leave until morning, he’ll be here by sundown tomorrow. “You can go now.”

“Go?!” Aegon exclaims, then laughs, one of his reckless, taunting cackles. “Oh no. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You definitely are.”

“No, I’m not,” he insists, grinning. “For once in my life, I’m the person who’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. I’m the honorable one. The sacred heir of the favorite son has just been born, and the blessed mother has been sawed in half like Saint Simon the Zealot, and where is Aemond? Where is literally everyone else? Across the continent shaking hands and forcing smiles to win him the great state of Washington. I’m not going home. I’m collecting every second I spend here like coins from a slot machine. I won the jackpot, babe. No one is ever going to be able to call me the family fuckup after this.”

The pain is horrible, insurmountable; you can’t think through it. You close your eyes and try not to sob, to wail, to split yourself open in body and soul. I can’t let him see me break down.

“What’s up?” Aegon asks. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I want a Mr. Misty. Go get me a Mr. Misty.”

“Okay,” Aegon says doubtfully. “What flavor?”

“I don’t care. Not red.”

“They have orange, lemon-lime, grape—”

“Just pick one!” you shout, tears brimming in your eyes. Get out, get out, get out.

“Calm down, psycho!” he yells back, heading for the door.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, you snatch the call button off the nightstand and press it frantically until a nurse arrives. You get more morphine and sink into a stillness like deep water, down, down, down.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s dark outside, stars and a crescent moon. On the television is grainy footage from the Battle of Khe Sanh. American soldiers younger than you are dragging their wounded brethren to a Chinook helicopter for evacuation: bandages, burns, missing limbs and faces. Aegon had dozed off in his chair—assisted by an ample amount of Vicodin, surely—but is stirring awake now. He blinks groggily at the screen.

“It’s so fucking awful,” you say, and Aegon’s eyebrows shoot up; it’s the first time you’ve ever sworn in front of him. You trained yourself to stop when you met Aemond. “30,000 Americans dead, God knows how many Vietnamese peasants, Buddhist monks setting themselves on fire, and for what? So we can say we did everything we could to stop communism? So we can humiliate the Russians? There is no liberation of Vietnam. All we’re doing is making those people hate us. And we’re destroying ourselves too.”

“I didn’t know you cared about the war.”

You look at him, mystified. “Everything I do is about the war.”

“But you never really talk about it.” Aegon yawns and stretches, reaching up towards the ceiling. “You talk about Chanel dresses and tea parties.”

“Well yeah, because it’s…it’s unseemly, I guess. For me to speak on the war. Me specifically.”

He snorts. “Because you’re a woman? Who told you that? Aemond?”

You hesitate, watching the television again. Now there are napalm bombs incinerating villages and rice paddies. “I had a boyfriend before Aemond, you know.”

“What, in kindergarten? Chasing each other around the playground? Illicit snuggles beneath the slide?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “A real boyfriend.”

“No way. You did not.”

“I did,” you insist, smiling a little. “We met at a party my freshman year of college. He was at NYU studying…oh, I always forgot, that was one of our jokes. It was either archaeology or anthropology. I actually thought I was going to marry him for a minute there.”

“Scandalous.” Aegon is gazing at you with his murky blue eyes, grinning, playful. “What happened?”

“He had a moral crisis about poor kids getting shipped off to Vietnam to be slaughtered while he was tucked safely away in his ivory tower. So he enlisted, and honestly it was shocking how quickly I started to forget about him. We exchanged a few letters, it didn’t last long, I think he was forgetting about me too. But he ended up getting killed in action in October, 1965. His old roommate told me.”

Now Aegon is thoughtful. His crooked grin dies. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s his parents I feel bad for. He was an only child. I heard his father drank himself to death.”

“You’ve been carrying a story like that around with you and you never used it? Not in an interview or an article, not at one of your asinine little tea parties?”

“I can’t,” you confess. “Aemond doesn’t want me to. He doesn’t like to be reminded about…you know. That there was someone else before.”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles, combing his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair. “As if Aemond was a virgin when you met him.”

But it’s not the same. It isn’t to Aemond, and it wouldn’t be to the rest of the world either. It is your eternal disgrace. It is something you will be expected to atone for until you’re in the grave. “Give me a joint.”

Aegon is amazed. “What?”

“I know you have some, you always do. I want one. Give it to me.”

“You smoke grass?”

“I used to. Then I gave it up. But I’m making an exception.”

He gawks at you for a while, then slips a joint out of one of the front pockets of his green army jacket. He places it between his lips, lights it with his little chrome Zippo, and inhales deep and slow. Then he offers it to you.

“I don’t want herpes.”

Aegon laughs. “I don’t have herpes. I swear.”

“Not yet, maybe. Give it time.”

“Are you gonna smoke or not?”

You take the joint and fill your lungs with earth, floral notes, a tinge of spice. It’s been years, but it comes rushing back in an instant as the high hits your bloodstream: calm quiet weightlessness, a sense of wellbeing that fills the honeycomb hollows of your bones. “I need to see the baby.”

Aegon stalls. “The doctors were really insistent that you stay here.”

“And all the sudden you care about rules.”

He considers this, drumming his palms on his thighs. His jeans are ripped; he’s biting his lower lip. Then abruptly, he stands. “Alright.” He grabs the wheelchair and pushes it up against the bed. “Let’s go.”

You take another drag and then discard the joint in your empty Dairy Queen cup. You throw off your blanket and try to touch your bare feet to the cool linoleum floor. It hurts, it feels like razor blades, but you keep going. Then you remember you still have one IV in the back of your left hand. “Wait, how am I going to…?”

“You’re in luck. I am well-versed in needles.” Aegon holds out a palm. Nervously, you give him your hand. He peels off the medical tape, takes a moment to examine the vein, then slides out the needle so smoothly you don’t feel it at all; it barely even bleeds. He balls up a Kleenex from the box on your nightstand and secures it to the wound with the same strip of tape. “You’re welcome.”

“Junkie.” You try to lower yourself into the wheelchair and a yelp rips from your throat.

“Oh, this is pathetic,” Aegon says, but not quite unkindly. “Here.” He leans down in front of you. Too desperate to be prideful, you link your arms around the back of his neck. Aegon’s shaggy blonde hair tickles your cheek; his hands skim gingerly to settle on your waist, steadying you without too much pressure. He helps you into the wheelchair, where you collapse gasping and sweating bullets.

“If you ever mention this again, I will guillotine you.”

He winks. “Relax, little Io. I never kiss and tell.”

“I’d assume you’re usually too plastered to remember the details.”

“Be nice. I could roll you down a staircase.” But he doesn’t; he rolls you into the hallway instead.

The lights in the corridor are dim for night, for dreams. You see a few nurses shuttling in and out of other rooms from a distance, but none seem to notice you and Aegon. He steers the wheelchair into the elevator and you ride it down two floors, then cross another hallway and pass through a set of doors. There must be a dozen incubators, half of them occupied. The nurse on duty—currently cradling a tiny infant in her arms, a girl judging by the pink hat, and feeding her from a bottle of formula—gapes at you.

“Ma’am? You aren’t supposed to be—”

“Shut up,” Aegon tells her, and the nurse doesn’t say another word.

Aegon pushes the wheelchair down the line of incubators until you reach the one with a name card labelled Targaryen, Aristos Apollo. And there he is: unmistakably fragile, impossibly small, blue veins like a roadmap beneath translucent skin, tangled in tubes and wires. In his sleeping face you don’t see Aemond or even yourself, but rather an inexplicable familiarity. You feel like you’ve met him before. You feel like you’ve known him all your life.

You press your hand to the clear, domed wall of the incubator; shadows in the shape of your outstretched fingers fall over Ari’s face. “He’s real.”

“Of course he is.” Aegon is watching you; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, a blur of blonde hair and high cheekbones. When you turn to him, he immediately looks away.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” But his voice is distracted, bewildered, like someone fumbling for a light switch in a dark room.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii x you

170 notes · View notes

uirukii · 1 year

Text

Some good news to add onto the scores of judges blocking the ban and families and teens suing for illegal discrimination.

You can’t say you’re protecting kids when 1) the healthcare is backed with decades of proven research it’s safe and effective and 2) you know this because you will allow cis children to access this medical care, just not the children you dislike.

#lgbtq #trans healthcare #good news #lgbtq community #lgbtq+#lgbt+#lgbt #transgender health

727 notes · View notes

schneiderenjoyer · 5 months

Text

Now that global's getting some more good world lore with the recent two events, I can finally just talk about how much it fascinates me that arcanists, by nature of their genetics, actually are just a different species of their own.

Like, the clear discrimination aside, the fact they definitely stand out among humans truly emphasizes the battle they face to be recognized as equals to humans if you view their race as not a sub-category of human, but as a different species entirely. How like fantasies depict humanoid creatures such as elves and dwarves, but they're never classified as human. That's what arcanists are starting to feel like.

This idea is also supported by the many hints and factoids scattered around the in-game UI. How the Celluloid Activity (the game's energy system) is a form of genetic DNA seen only in arcanists that help them control arcanum. Or how the concept of Gnosis or Deep Thought is their way of focusing their energy and help process the world and the arcanum around them. Blonney's struggle narratively in the event shows just how much arcanists think very differently compared to humans that it's seen as "odd" and "not normal" (also love the neuro divergent subtext of that for arcanists honestly).

But the real kicker of how it makes me confirm that it's not just a human discrimination of a race, but straight up xenophobia for an entire species is the conversations we get from the entire Nightmare in Green Lake, where the majority of the cast is purely arcanists interacting with other arcanists.

From the conversation in car of casually talking about Tooth Fairy eating fairies to the point she got cursed to have her teeth stolen like it's a conversation about the weather, to them just glossing over the erratic behavior of Changeling keeping campers hostage and later just getting rid (or throwing them out of the campsite) once she's bored of them. These are seen as normal behavior to arcanists.

Like, forget the members of the foundation probably seeing worse, I'm surprised Blonney didn't react more to the realization, it's honestly hilarious. But that just shows the clear divide of what makes arcanists different from humans. Which also explains why a lot of the arcanists talk so cryptic and artistic, sometimes not making sense unlike the human characters who talk straightforward and direct.

Because to us, as humans, we understand that language better and viewing arcanists' language is hard to decipher since they're a different species with a different culture and way of thinking.

This opens up larger avenues of viewing the struggles of arcanists in a human dominated world and the dark implication of the Foundation potentially experimenting on arcanists not to find the cell to withstand the Storm, but to transplant the ability to use arcanum onto humans through genetic alteration. Which can be backed up with the masks the Manus gives to humans to withstand the Storm, but in exchange turns them into monstrous beings because they can't handle the forced application of Celluloid Activity on their body.

#reverse 1999 #don't look at me i'm brainrotting again #going feral i'm losing it #fun fact from the CN beta Schneider was categorized under Infected in the UTTU catalog for arcanists #which brings up the discussion of can becoming an arcanists despite not being born as one be possible for humans #THIS IS MY DESPERATE CRY TO HAVE SCHNEIDER BACK BLUEPOCH PLS #HUMAN EXPERIMENTATION OR NOT BRING MY BBYGIRL BACK

258 notes · View notes

dissociacrip · 5 months

Text

it's not just having physical or mental impairments that prevent me from working most jobs but also the fact that working as a disabled person means another avenue for people (employers, co-workers, customers, etc.) to enact violence against me.

i'm happier when i'm not working because that means i'm getting treated like shit much less.

yeah, most menial jobs are like that, whether you're disabled or not, but i'm not just talking about the general stress of things like retail and customers cussing you out or threatening you, i'm also talking about stuff within the workplace. supervisors and co-workers not taking your health problems seriously. getting scapegoated by co-workers and management. having your pay docked (or getting fired) for working too slow due to your health issues but you can't prove it's discrimination (if that process is even worth it.) being treated like you're not putting in enough effort when you're putting in twice the effort as your abled peers and struggling just to stay standing. supervisors and co-workers finding you difficult and annoying and weird because you're autistic and think very differently to the way they do, plus you don't have an innate understanding of how they think. still being held to abled expectations even when you do disclose that you have physical/mental conditions, and also while having other co-workers who are given the lenience that you need but for whatever reason it's denied to you because favoritism or cliques mixed in with ablest attitudes/beliefs. having co-workers try to blame their mistakes and incompetence on your because you're an easy target. these are just some of my experiences.

you don't have to deal w/ nasty entitled customers in every position/field but the risk of nasty vile people within the company or organization you work for is always there and it's especially magnified when something like disability is brought into the equation since that directly relates to your capacity to perform work to capitalist expectations. and then possibly losing your job means losing income means losing ability to pay for medical care and basic survival needs.

constantly pushing yourself past your limits and getting sicker because of that to pay for medications that barely help and doctor's appointments where your problems hardly get assessed/identified anyway, or it takes forever.

and what this doesn't mean is that being completely incapable of work, jobless or on benefits, etc. is a privileged thing vs. working while disabled. those things come with their own sets of issues and risks for violence that can be very extreme and life-threatening and anybody who thinks otherwise has some shit they need to unpack.

#j #body log #ableism #cripple punk #cpunk

138 notes · View notes

wrinkledparchment · 1 year

Text

toeing the line | sebastian sallow

BRIEF DISCLAIMER: THIS AUTHOR DOES NOT SUPPORT OR TOLERATE TRANSPHOBIA OR DISCRIMINATION OF ANY KIND

Summary: a game of cat and mouse sequel | You may have lost the battle, but you’re determined not to lose the war. Just moments after you’d met him, you already felt close to him, like he was someone you could deeply trust. Even when a troll comes to Hogsmeade, or when Rookwood seeks you out, he always stands by your side, toeing the line between friends and something more.

Word Count: 3,706 words

Author’s Note: just a very light-hearted dabble into some Sebastian cuteness, warning it is unedited bc I spilled juice on my usual computer. OOps lol edit 1hr after posting: hi guys I appreciate all the love you’ve shown me so so much throughout all my fics--I will be more active today bc I will not be going to work. I hit someone with my car and now I am emotionally traumatized. Pls enjoy

Content Warnings: fluff, brief fight but nothing too graphic or magically violent :)

a game of cat and mouse

Sebastian’s heavy hand on your shoulder and warm breath on your ear still burned with his absence, and for every second you spent actually thinking about getting your supplies, or your classes, or precisely anything else, you spent 3 more seconds thinking about Sebastian’s voice, or your duel, or his wit that you felt you would never catch up to.

You felt--quite constantly, in fact--that you and Sebastian were competing for an unknown prize, continuously attempting to best the other in this war that conspicuously looked to everyone else like shameless flirting. The worst part that he was so talented at this sort of game, always managing to play the one card that caught you off-guard but never crossed the line into being too forward, too obvious that it showed you his hand.

After browsing only the necessary stores to complete Weasley’s shopping list, you practically booked it to the square near Honeyduke’s and the Wizardwear store, the meeting place Sebastian had designated. It was bustling, many people gathered around tables or sauntering between shops, enjoying the blue skies and the warm sun that warmed the skin of your cheeks.

A large smile broke out on your face as soon as you spotted Sebastian across the cobblestone square, leaned casually against the large tree with his legs crossed at the ankles. He seemed to be briefly skimming one of the potions textbooks, occupying his time while he waited patiently for you to come back home to him.

There was something so enchanting about that moment, you being able to watch him from afar. He looked so content, peaceful in his mind that was able to lay dormant briefly, not needing to work overtime to calculate just when to brush his hand against your knuckles or conjure a witty remark to stun you with. He was just naturally stunning, without ever needing to try.

At this point in the day, just the first day of knowing him, you’d already grown accustomed to the butterflies that awakened every time he was within 50 feet of you. You jogged lightly over to him, and as soon as your footsteps were within hearing distance, he looked up, as if he could sense your presence. When you came to a stop in front of him, he smiled so radiantly that you had forgotten the greeting you’d rehearsed on the way.

“I’ve finished my rather extensive shopping list,” you landed on instead, almost frowning at how you couldn’t immediately come back from the last interaction swinging. You held your wand up, proud of your immediate connection to what felt like the most stunning wand you’d ever seen.

He could sense your satisfaction, smiling, “Excellent.” The word just rolled off his tongue so simply, but for some ungodly reason, you felt your heart swell.

You didn’t bother allowing yourself the time to get flustered at his brief praise, and instead tried to show interest in him, too. “Did you get what you needed for your sister?”

You’d hoped that this would open a new avenue of conversation, but he didn’t open up more than he needed to. “I did,” he nodded. “I suppose the world is our oyster now,” and you held your breath as a smirk crawled up his face, “let’s see what mischief we can get up to.”

Sebastian saw you briefly glance over to Honeyduke’s. “Perhaps I can treat you to some desserts like I’d promised on the way over,” and there is a question, a near undetectable longing hidden by your smile, but it didn’t matter, because it was present in your eyes, too.

His smirk grew into an endearing smile, “Only if you promise to let me treat you to butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks afterwards.”

“I’ll keep it under consideration,” you pursed your lips, dangling the small burlap bag of galleons you found on the trail over between your pointer and thumb. “But I’m afraid one of us has a knack for treasure hunting and happens to be a few galleons richer.”

Sebastian shook his head, seemingly defeated, “I’m afraid your ‘knack for treasure hunting’ has very little to do with my proposal.” There was that twinkle in his eyes, and you knew that he had something prepared, as he always does. “Don’t you know that the gentleman always pays on the first date?”

You worked hard to contain your fumbling, internally swearing at him because somehow he always just has one comment locked and ready to fire. It was so difficult to try and play a game of charm and wit because he truly was the master.

All you could do was scoff, hoping that when you opened your mouth again, the most brilliant retort would fall out on it’s own. Before a word could fall out of your mouth, though, the ground began to rumble, loud thumps coming from behind the quaint village and exponentially rising in volume. As the thumps grew larger and larger, harsh sounds of crashes, breaking wood, and screams joined into the mix.

Out of seemingly nowhere, a fighter troll clad in armor glowing similarly to the dragon’s collar or Ranrok’s magic ran into the village, smashing stalls under it’s feet before launching into the air and smacking it’s large club into the ground before the pedestrians.

It didn’t matter to Sebastian that you had beaten him so swiftly and brutally in the earlier Defense Against the Dark Arts class--the single event that had him watching your every move with a close eye; Sebastian was not thinking logically when he put his arm out in front of you, fingers grasping onto your ropes as he shuffled to block your body with his. He acted solely on instinct, his need to protect overwhelming every sense and clouding every thought.

You peeked out from behind his shoulder as he slowly pulled his wand out, and you did the same, watching the troll’s line of sight slowly change from the adult villagers to you and Sebastian. The screams slowly got more distant as most of the villagers who were too scared to fight the troll ran for the exit, or for any cover at all.

The troll took a second when looking in your direction, as if registering who you were, but as soon as those few seconds were over, your eyes widened as the troll began to charge at the two of you. Sebastian flung at him with his wand, but it was to no avail. Only when one of the aurors of the village cast bombarda right at the troll’s head did it stop, going after the villagers instead of you two.

Sebastian’s grip on your robes loosened, his frame still blocking your body slightly, but he finally let go when he’d felt the area was clear. Precisely at the moment that Sebastian had turned to you, almost blushing as to excuse himself for grabbing onto you and forcing you behind him, a second troll came smashing through a house and now the pair of you were the sole targets, no backup to save you now. It charged at you quickly, but like clockwork, both you and Sebastian ducked and rolled.

There was such a simplicity to duelling with Sebastian, and despite it being your very first fight as a duo rather than opponents, the flow was seamless. The fighting ability and teamwork came naturally, like he was the thunder to your lightning. Sebastian used confringo quite a lot, which you’d noted to ask him to teach you later. You found your new power in some sort of powerful non-verbal magic, only discovering it out of fear and instinct when you saw Sebastian get corned by the troll.

Although Sebastian helped quite a lot, your newfound ability was what ultimately made the troll collapse, having one final box thrown at his head finally knocked the monster to his knees, and as Sebastian caught his breath, he glanced up to watch as you held your wand to your palm, a bright glow gathering before you threw a ball of who-knows-what at the troll. The giant shattered into shards, dissipating into thin air, and when Sebastian looked back at you, he caught a glimpse of a small, triumphant smile on your face.

He felt something churn so deeply in his stomach that he’d wondered what the elves had put in his tart this morning, but it only took seconds for the realization to cross his mind, and he finally realized what it was that made his heart feel full and his cheeks flush--pride.

Aurors and adult villagers all gathered around you amidst the rubble, Sebastian only standing back to watch as you were praised for your bravery. Jealousy was absent from Sebastian, and all his mind was filled with was your sly smile and the memory of his hand tugging on your robes, desperate to protect you without realizing that it was you who would protect him.

As an officer was congratulating you, all that was stuck in Sebastian’s mind was the terrified look on your face when the troll had him cornered, and how without effort or thought you moved to save him, power flowing through you with ease. For you, saving him had no contest in your mind and there was no second-guessing, no hesitation. It was instinct for you, but for Sebastian, having someone care so deeply with no reservations was so foreign that he didn’t register time passing until you were stood in front of him, having repaired all the buildings and broken stalls in the square. You’d also been awarded a new robe that wasn’t marred with scratches and dirt from the battle, which Sebastian recognized fit you incredibly well.

“Sebastian,” his name rolled off your tongue like a prayer, and a smile grew on your face as soon as he met your eyes. “I’d say we earned a butterbeer or two, how about you?”

He sighed dramatically, hoping you’d find humor in it. “It might help me forget that I was almost pulverized by a troll.”

Sebastian was quickly rewarded by a laugh that tumbled out of your mouth, warm and honey-like and after so long of simply being able to smirk, revelling in the satisfaction of you being so unmistakenly smitten by him, he now had to face that you’d called his bluff. There was something deeper between the two of you, and he could feel it when you spoke to him, “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

You grabbed out your small pouch of galleons, begging Sebastian to escort you to buy some chocolate frogs from Honeyduke’s before heading over to the Three Broomsticks. Just as you plopped the package down on the counter, Sebastian wordlessly took out his spare change and set it neatly next to the chocolate frogs. You froze, fingers still reaching into your pouch as you looked to him with furrowed brows.

He grabbed the chocolate frogs off the counter, smiling at you and then at the storeowner, before guiding you away. He opened the door for you and passed you your chocolates, “What’s some spare change in exchange for not getting wacked by a troll club?”

You scoffed, “Are you trying to bribe me, Sallow?”

He shook his head, smirking. “No,” he flung his arm around your shoulder, leaning into your ear once again. “You’re just incredible.” His warmth was engulfing now, and you were so close to the salvation of him really holding you that it started to make you dizzy. You felt ridiculous, childish smile and feverish flush taking over your whole face, and he was so close.

You felt like you were just about to close the distance, wrap your arm around his waist and squeeze enough for your hips to meld together when something in the tone shifted, your stomach dropped and the hairs on the back fo your neck stood up perfectly straight.

You looked around, watching a peculiar looking man wander down into an alley, and then you caught it, a glimpse of Ranrok standing, and he looked rather angry. Sebastian’s arm dropped from you immediately, the two of you seeking cover to eavesdrop, and this time, it was you who stood in front, and Sebastian’s heart fluttered at your innate need to protect him.

Your heart constricted, Sebastian’s confusion over the situation palpable behind you. Ranrok had sent the trolls to Hogsmeade in an attempt to get to you, underestimating your abilities by far. Sebastian felt even more intrigued by you than before, his eyes watching the side of your face closely as he tried to gauge your reaction.

You made brief eye contact with Ranrok, and you were so startled by the look in his eyes that you immediately grabbed Sebastian by the sleeve of his robe, only bothering to whisper a hurried “We should go,” before tugging him away and into the more populated street.

“Did they see us?” Sebastian questsioned worriedly, eyes scanning all around the street, your fingers dropping from his robe as you tried to hasten your pace, deciding it would be best for the two of you to hide out in the Three Broomsticks. “What was that goblin doing with Victor Rookwood?”

You mumbled something about a goblin named Ranrok and a rebellion, but Sebastian was barely paying enough attention to not stumble over his own feet, let alone try and decipher your ramblings.

“Ranrok?” Sebastian’s face quickly dropped, turning into one of harsh realization, “You mean the goblin from the Daily Prophet? I knew I’d recognized him from somewhere, I--” and his face managed to get even stonier. He lightly grasped your arm, trying to guide you to walk in front of him as he watched Rookwood emerge from the alley, searching the streets. “Quickly,” Sebastian muttered in your ear, glancing behind him and all he could think of was keeping you safe.

Sebastian practically busted open the doors of the Three Broomsticks, the attention of all the patrons turning quickly to the two of you. A goblin passed you on the way in, but you were so focused on trying to be inconspicuous you barely thought anything of it. Sebastian’s hand was still resting on your upper arm, bringing you to a seat. His arm only dropped when he went to pull out your stool for you, and you found yourself wanting him to put it back, to comfort you with his touch again.

You almost wished you’d find yourself in more danger when he was around if this was what it led to--his warmth lingering and his smell clouding your senses and better judgment. His hand reached up to his hair now, tangling in it as he glanced from you to the barkeeper to the door in rapid succession, repeatedly.

Sebastian relaxed quickly after Sirona started talking though, making brief introductions and offering the first two butterbeers on the house. You took a sip quickly, your eyes peeking just enough over the rim to stay alert. “I heard about the attack,” Sirona began, and the cockiest of grins creeped onto Sebastian’s face. “I’m glad to see you two escaped injury.”

“Thanks to this one,” Sebastian laid his heavy eyes on you, and you nearly rolled your eyes at just how smitten he looked, huge smile adorning his face. “Single-handedly took down a troll!” he praised, raising his mug high in celebration.

Sirona shared a knowing smile with Sebastian, as if she could read him like a book, “Is that right? Well done.” After brief conversation, she left the bar to attend to other guests, allowing you time to break open your chocolate frogs and pop them in your mouth.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sebastian teased, noting your glare at him just a few seconds prior.

You shook your head, trying to finish your chocolate frog quickly so you could answer him. “Must you embarrass me with your praise everywhere we go?”

He hummed, “I’m the type to brag about my closest friends. I can’t help it.”

Just as you were raising the mug to your lips, nearly finishing off your first cup of butterbeer, the large doors creaked open to reveal Rookwood and Harlow, a much stubbier sidekick. Sebastian sat up straighter in his seat, looking you in the eye as you both hoped that the pair wouldn’t notice you. Sirona quickly walked over, asking them to leave.

As the tension in the room escalated, Sebastian’s face leaned ever closer to yours, looking you sternly with his eyes cloudy, filled with danger. You could hear Rookwood’s sneer in his voice, “Come now, no need for theatrics.” You looked to Sebastian as he watched Rookwood in the corner of his eye. “I’m only here for this one, anyway.”

You squeezed your eyes shut if only for a second, turning around and stepping off your stool, Sebastian quickly following you, standing as close to you as possible. If you’d ever glanced down, you’d see his hands in fists hovering over his pocket, his legs planted in the ground, like he was ready for a fight. “My friend is enjoying a well-earned butterbeer.”

“I only want a quick word,” and he tries to prowl towards you, head closer to you than his feet. Every patron stands up and draws their wand, and Sebastian, rather than tugging you behind him like he did in the past, steadies himself by your side and draws his wand quicker than anyone else in the entire tavern.

Your eyes leave Rookwood’s if only for a second, glancing at the side of Sebastian’s face, his jaw hardened and eyes stone cold. Rookwood backs away, still threatening Sirona as he takes slow footsteps backwards. Just as he turned, about to open the door, his eyes glanced back at you and Sebastian. He smirked, “Can’t drink butterbeers forever.”

When he left, you decided to return to your seat, grabbing your mug and finally taking your last swig. Sebastian grabbed his stool, pulling it slightly closer to yours before settling down, also finishing off his butterbeer. “You’ll be telling me about this later,” he stated matter-of-factly, and all you could do was let out a chuckle, silently agreeing.

You ordered three more rounds, your stomachs nearly caving in on themselves from the sheer amount of butterbeers the two of you drank. You talked about anything and everything--classes, Sebastian’s plan to duel as a team, his previous adventures with Anne and Ominis--you were chatting, snacking on chocolate frogs, and sipping your complimentary drinks until well after the sun went down.

As time passed in the Three Broomsticks, the two of you kept unknowingly scooting your stools closer together, upper arms pressed against one another, necks sore from constantly looking to the side. Even as the patrons came and went, the one consistent sound was the laughter of you and Sebastian, childish and playful.

Your fingers brushed, eyes barely leaving each other’s faces, and it felt like no time had passed at all. Only when you heard brief whispers about a curfew did you glance out the window to see how late it’d gotten. You almost didn’t want to leave the safety of the Three Broomsticks, remembering Rookwood’s threat that seemed to imply he’d be waiting for you as soon as you left.

When you got out of your seat and headed for the doors, Sebastian’s hand brushed over the small of your back so briefly you weren’t sure if you’d imagined it, but you saw his hand fall back to his side out of the corner of your eye. After you reached the crisp night air of Hogsmeade, looking at the twinkling lights that hung over the streets and the stars they were reminscient of, you never got that gut feeling you knew so well.

You walked down the street, returning to Hogwarts with Sebastian in comfortable silence. As you glanced down the street, you saw one Theophilus Harlow slumped over, sitting against a wall on the ground, fast asleep. Sebastian’s eyes followed yours, and he had to stop himself from letting out a chuckle at the sight. As you passed the bridge to Hogsmeade, far enough that you were sure you were safe, Sebastian leaned over to you again. “Maybe we can drink butterbeers forever.”

Your smile was bright enough, Sebastian noted, to compete with the moon. He felt rewarded by your happiness, and worked hard to contain the joy that felt like it was pouring out of him. “Maybe not forever,” you remarked, “but we can drink butterbeers together long enough to put the whole world to sleep.”

He silently agreed, but still felt the need to counter anyways, just to continue the game that he felt you’d both already lost. “The volume of our laughter might just be enough to wake the whole world up.”

You shook your head, finally ready for a response off the cuff, having learned from the best. “I’m sure the world has grown used to it by now.”

And finally, you decided to be the one to push instead of him, never growing impatient of the game but rather reveling in it. Your hand reached for his forearm, grasping around his bicep and holding it lightly. His eyes caught yours, his lips curled into a smirk, and you felt you could push further.

Your hand snaked down, gliding along his silky robes, and both of your hearts beat faster, in tandem with one another. Sebastian felt dizzied by your touch, all alarms sounding off in his mind, knowing that you were about to win this game you’d been playing. Your hand grasped his, fingers that had been chilled from the night air finding solace in one another. Your thumb rubbed circles on the back of his hand, toeing the line between harmless flirting and something more.

Sebastian’s hand squeezed yours, and you resisted the urge to hold your breath, only looking up at him through your eyelashes, lips curved only slightly into the smallest of smiles. The two of you continued the rest of the way to your common room in a comfortable and warm silence, pathway illuminated by the moon and the stars.

#hogwarts legacy #Harry Potter #harry potter fandom #harry potter fanfic #harry potter hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x gn!reader #welcome to hogsmeade

248 notes · View notes

odinsblog · 10 months

Text

The Supreme Court is trying to drag America backwards to “Separate but Equal”

President Andrew Johnson vetoed the nation’s inaugural Civil Rights legislation because, in his view, it discriminated against white people and privileged Black people. The Civil Rights Act of 1866 (which Congress enacted over the veto) bestowed citizenship upon all persons — except for certain American Indians — born in the United States and endowed all persons with the same rights as white people in terms of issuing contracts, owning property, suing or being sued or serving as witnesses. This law was proposed because the Supreme Court had ruled in Dred Scott v. Sanford that African Americans, free or enslaved, were ineligible as a matter of race for federal citizenship, and because many states had barred African Americans from enjoying even the most rudimentary civil rights.

Johnson vetoed the act in part because the citizenship provision would immediately make citizens of native-born Black people while European-born immigrants had to wait several years to qualify for citizenship via naturalization (which was then open only to white people). According to Johnson, this amounted to “a discrimination against large numbers of intelligent, worthy and patriotic foreigners, and in favor of the Negro, to whom, after long years of bondage, the avenues to freedom and intelligence have just now been suddenly opened.” Johnson similarly opposed the provision in the act affording federal protection to civil rights, charging that it made possible “discriminating protection to colored persons.”

A key defect of the Civil Rights Act, according to Johnson, was that it established “for the security of the colored race safeguards which go infinitely beyond any that the general government has ever provided for the white race. In fact, the distinction of race and color is by the bill made to operate in favor of the colored and against the white race.” Johnson opposed as well the 14th Amendment, which decreed that states offer to all persons equal protection of the laws, a provision which he also saw as a wrongful venture in racial favoritism aimed at assisting the undeserving Negro.

In 1875, Congress enacted legislation that prohibited racial discrimination in the provision of public accommodations. Eight years later, in a judgment invalidating that provision, the Supreme Court disapprovingly lectured the Black plaintiffs, declaring that “when a man has emerged from slavery, and by the aid of beneficent legislation has shaken off the inseparable concomitants of that state, there must be some stage in the progress of his elevation when he takes the rank of a mere citizen and ceases to be the special favorite of the laws.”

In 1941, President Franklin D. Roosevelt promulgated Executive Order 8802, which prohibited racial discrimination in the employment of workers in defense industries and established the Fair Employment Practices Commission to carry out the order. Assailing the order, Representative Jamie Whitten, a Mississippi segregationist, complained that it would not so much prevent unfairness as “discriminate in favor of the Negro” — this at a time when anti-Black discrimination across the social landscape was blatant, rife and to a large extent, fully lawful.

Segregationist Southerners were not the only ones who railed against antidiscrimination laws on the grounds that they constituted illegitimate preferences for African Americans. In 1945, the New York City administrator Robert Moses inveighed against pioneering municipal antidiscrimination legislation in employment and college admissions. Displaying more anger at the distant prospect of racial quotas than the immediate reality of racial exclusions, Moses maintained that antidiscrimination measures would “mean the end of honest competition, and the death knell of selection and advancement on the basis of talent.”

Liberals, too, have attacked measures they deemed to constitute illicit racial preferencing on behalf of Black people. When the Congress of Racial Equality, or CORE, proposed “compensatory” hiring in the early 1960s — selection schemes that would give an edge to Black people on account of past victimization and the lingering disabilities caused by historical mistreatment — many liberals resisted. Asked about CORE’s demands, President John F. Kennedy remarked that he did not think that society “can undo the past” and that it was a mistake “to begin to assign quotas on the basis of religion, or race, or color, or nationality.”

Kennedy’s comment that it would be a mistake “to begin” to assign quotas reflects a recurring misimpression that racial politics “begins” when those who have been marginalized make demands for equitable treatment.

When Kennedy spoke, unwritten but effective quotas had long existed that enabled white men to monopolize huge portions of the most influential and coveted positions in society. Yet it was only when facing protests against monopolization that he was moved to deplore status-based quotas.

This same dynamic has been recurrent in subsequent decades: Every major policy seeking to advance the position of Black people has been opposed on the grounds that it was race conscious, racially discriminatory, racially preferential and thus socially toxic. That racial affirmative action in university admissions and elsewhere has survived for so long is remarkable, given the powerful forces arrayed against it.

(continue reading)

#politics #scotus #education #affirmative action #separate but equal #republicans #racism deniers #white supremacy #two americas #double standards #racism

139 notes · View notes

allthebrazilianpolitics · 11 months

Text

São Paulo’s LGBT+ Pride parade draws 3 million people

A crowd of over 3 million people gathered on the streets of São Paulo on Sunday for the 27th edition of the city’s LGBT+ Pride parade.

Brazil Reports hit the streets of São Paulo to take photos and report from the historic event.

The celebration was awash with color, with the city’s main thoroughfare, Paulista Avenue, painted like a rainbow and lined with thousands of vibrant flags along the parade route. Parade-goers were decked out in rainbow-flag outfits and T-shirts as well as eye-popping costumes.

This year’s parade slogan was, “We Want Social Policies,” a call for the country’s authorities to develop public policies focused on the LGBT community.

“We need to legitimize our struggle and ensure that our country acknowledges and understands the specificities of this portion of the Brazilian population. It is urgent to confront discrimination and exclusion” read the manifesto released by the parade organizers.

Minister of Human Rights Silvio Almeida participated in the celebration too. From atop one of the sound trucks, he delivered a brief speech before the parade commenced.

#brazil #politics #brazilian politics #LGBT #mod nise da silveira #image description in alt

136 notes · View notes

the-cimmerians · 2 months

Text

In a letter released Friday evening to the Human Rights Campaign (HRC), the United States Department of Education Office For Civil Rights has declared a formal investigation into alleged Title IX violations at Owasso Public Schools. They are also investigating potential Section 504 violations and Title II violations under the Americans with Disabilities act. This is in response to a letter alleging a pattern of abuse, bullying, and harassment of LGBTQ+ people at the school, and the impact this might have played into transgender teen of Choctaw heritage Nex Benedict’s death.

The letter states that it will look into two potential avenues under which violations of student’s civil rights might have occurred:

Whether the District failed to appropriately respond to alleged harassment of students in a manner consistent with the requirements of Title IX.

Whether the District failed to appropriately respond to alleged harassment of students in a manner consistent with the requirements of Section 504 and Title II.

The letter comes after a formal complaint from HRC asking for an investigation into the school as well as superintendent Ryan Walters. HRC alleges “Nex’s death is the natural consequence” of anti-LGBTQ+ sentiments perpetuated, in part, by attempts to paint transgender and nonbinary people in girl’s bathrooms as inherently predatory. According to HRC, Nex first began being bullied shortly after the state’s transgender bathroom ban was signed into law.

“We are deeply concerned about the failure of Owasso High School to address documented instances of bullying, violence, and harassment against Nex, which occurred in earnest over the course of the previous school year and were in violation of Nex’s rights under Title IX of the Education Amendments Act of 1972,” says the complaint from HRC.

This is the first federal response to the death of Nex Benedict in Oklahoma that has been made public. According to HRC, other efforts to bring a federal response to discrimination in Owasso Public Schools are still underway. These efforts include a second letter asking the department to open a full investigation into discriminatory practices by Superintendent Ryan Walters. Ryan Walters, the complaint notes, has recently appointed Chaya Raichik from Libs of TikTok, whose posts were followed by threats to a teacher in Nex’s school district who he admired. They also include a call for a Department of Justice investigation into Nex’s death.

State Superintendent Ryan Walters has recently come under fire for fundraising with an anti-LGBTQ+ extremist, Ron Causby, who urged his daughters to “kick the shit” out of transgender people if he encountered them in the bathroom.

In a statement provided by HRC, HRC President Kelly Robinson says of the letter, “Nex’s family, community, and the broader 2SLGBTQI+ (two spirit, lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, and intersex+) community in Oklahoma are still awaiting answers following their tragic loss. We appreciate the Department of Education responding to our complaint and opening an investigation–we need them to act urgently so there can be justice for Nex, and so that all students at Owasso High School and every school in Oklahoma can be safe from bullying, harassment, and discrimination.”

#Nex Benedict #hate crime #MMIWG2S #Title IX

22 notes · View notes

queeryouthassemble · 9 months

Text

[ID: A light red rectangle takes up the top third of a square post, with a heading reading "We, The Youth, Dissent" in large, black, bold lettering. Below it in small black text reads "Queer Youth Assemble is coordinating a nationwide protest of the recent Supreme Court rulings, which have blocked debt relief, prohibited affirmative action, and weakened anti-discrimination protections for queer people nationwide. Join us at a demonstration near you!". The bottom two thirds of the square is taken up by a light pink background. Inside is a light red graphic of a state map of the United States, with location markers in Washington, Idaho, Oklahoma, Illinois, Kentucky, Georgia, Washington DC, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts. End ID.]

[ID: A light pink square post, with a large, black, and bold heading that reads "What are we protesting?". Below this is a rounded light red square with smaller black text that reads "The Supreme Court has recently targeted areas of our everyday lives that impact our finances, education, and our freedom of self-expression. With the rulings impacting student debt relief, lgbtqia+ rights, and affirmative action, we have had enough. Queer Youth Assemble has created Youth Dissent as a way to highlight the impact of these recent Supreme Court rulings especially on minority groups within the lgbtqia+ community. The intersectionality of these rulings is too large to ignore and we the youth, dissent." End ID.]

[ID: A light pink square post with part of a light red state map of the United States taking up the left third of the post. There are three location markers in different states. The location marker in Massachusetts has text beside it in bold, all-caps lettering which reads "Boston, MA". Below it, slightly smaller black text reads "8/4 from 12-3 PM", and below that there is smaller black text which reads "Boston Common, by Brewer Fountain, near the corner of Park and Tremont Streets". The location marker in Pennsylvania has text beside it in bold, all-caps lettering which reads "Scranton, PA". Below it, slightly smaller black text reads "7/29 from 2-4:30 PM", and below that there is smaller black text which reads "Demonstration beginning at 310 Mifflin Street, ending at 800 Linden Street". The location marker in Washington DC has text beside it in bold, all-caps lettering which reads "District of Colombia. Below it, slightly smaller black text reads "7/19 from 10-11:30 AM", and below that there is smaller black text which reads "Outside the Supreme Court of the United States, First Street NE between East Capitol Street and Maryland Avenue". End ID.]

[ID: A light pink square post with part of a light red state map of the United States taking up the left third of the post. There is a location marker in Georgia and South Carolina. The location marker in Georgia has text beside it in bold, all-caps lettering which reads "Atlanta, GA". Below it, slightly smaller black text reads "8/26 from 10-11:45 AM", and below that there is smaller black text which reads "Outside the Georgia State Capitol building, Capitol Sq SW, Atlanta, GA 30334". The location marker in South Carolina has text beside it in bold, all-caps lettering which reads "Colombia, SC". Below it, slightly smaller black text reads "8/5 from 1 - 2:30 PM", and below that there is smaller black text which reads "Outside the South Carolina State Capitol, North Ground Steps, 1100 Gervais Street". End ID.]

[ID: A light pink square post with part of a light red state map of the United States taking up most of the space. There is a location marker in Illinois, Kentucky, and, Oklahoma. On top of the map is a light pink rounded rectangle. Bold, black, all-caps text reads "Springfield, IL", with smaller bold black text reading "TBA" below it. Below this, bold, black, all-caps text reads "Frankfurt, KY", with smaller bold black text reading "7/29 from 5-7 PM" below it. Below this smaller black text reads "Outside the Kentucky State Capitol building, 700 Capital Ave, Frankfort, KY 40601". Below this, bold, black, all-caps text reads "Oklahoma City, OK", with smaller bold black text reading "7/22 from 2-5 PM" below it. Below this smaller black text reads "Outside the Oklahoma State Capitol Building, 2300 N Lincoln Blvd, Oklahoma City, OK 73105". End ID.]

[ID: A light pink square post with part of a light red state map of the United States taking up the right half of the post. There is a location marker in Washington and Idaho. The location marker in Washington has text beside it in bold, all-caps lettering which reads "Seattle, WA". Below it, slightly smaller black text reads "TBA", and below that there is smaller black text which reads "Volunteer Park Amphitheater, 1139-1157 Volunteer Park Rd, Seattle, WA 98102". The location marker in Idaho has text beside it in bold, all-caps lettering which reads "Boise, ID". Below it, slightly smaller black text reads "7/31 from 12-4 PM", and below that there is smaller black text which reads "Outside the Idaho State Capitol Building, 700 W Jefferson St, Boise, ID 83702". End ID.]

[ID: A light pink square post with a black, all-caps, bold heading which reads "Don't see a protest near you?". Below this is a light red rounded square with smaller black text within it, reading "Keep an eye out for upcoming announcements about protests near you! If you are interested in organizing a demonstration in your state, please feel free to contact us at [email protected] We have a complete guide to organizing your own demonstration coming out soon!". End ID.]

#original post #queer youth assemble #qya #fuck scotus #us supreme court #supreme court #fuck the supreme court #scotus #affirmative action #queer rights #queer #trans rights #trans #transgender #lgbtq #politics #us politics #protests

85 notes · View notes

metamatar · 6 months

Note

based on one of your recent posts should i still be vegetarian especially if I was born into it?

you can do whatever you want forever!

the tags clearly said the vegetarianism that you were born into bc of your caste position isn't about animal liberation. im also extremely skeptical of any politics that centres personal choice instead of political and economic changes in meat production. anti meat taboos and the social censure of meat eaters in india is basically just an avenue to lynch and discriminate against dalits and muslims. your politics must be one that engages with that material reality, of living in a hindu fascist state where the politics that center anti meat food habits esp through the lens of personal moral goodness and purity are a reactionary force. your vegetarianism and/or veganism should remain a personal choice, that you make about your own body but the politics of what that represents is located in a highly specific context and its presentation.

#i personally try to minimise my own meat consumption #but i don't view it as a political position.#i live in the pacific northwest of the us atm. im surrounded by people for whom veganism is political action and its frustrating bc #the rhetoric they use is kind of. pointless and would be reactionary as hell if they were any kind of hegemonic force #asks #anon #veganism

28 notes · View notes

tantalizingtopi · 4 months

Text

From the Journal of Enver Gortash

Durge x Gortash

Word count: 644

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters portrayed in this writing, they are property of Baldur’s Gate 3 and Larian Studios

When a one shot becomes a triple take?

Post Durge coming to Gortash and agreeing tentatively to an initial deal, Gortash muses on what he knows about the Chosen as well as his desire to know her more intimately. This occurs post Amusing and Persistence if you’re interested in reading more.

‘The Chosen of Bhaal finally came to me in the quiet hours of the morning today. They continue to prove to be astute, discriminating, and reserved, all qualities I admire but that can prove to be more difficult in an alliance. However, I believe we have come to some form of arrangement, however tepid it is at the moment. I’ve come to believe the spawn could be more than a means to an end, but as an actual ally and equal, a relationship built on trust and respect.

‘I was pleasantly surprised when they brought up our respective gods, and where past plans have failed. I had not thought to bring to words the undertow of musings I myself have also had since hearing of a Bhaalist cult growing in the city. It was bold, but we must tread lightly through this one step at a time, for all is doomed to fail if we turn on one another as previous failures have. She is as sharp as her blades, and we can use that to our advantage to tighten up any possible problems in future endeavors.

‘I have been told that she is of Bhaal alone, born from his blood completely. When she caught me unawares a little over two tendays ago, I was surprised at the creature before me, and this morning she remains just as beguiling. None of my research told me that the spawn was so beddable, only of her form and a very undescriptive one at that. I promptly punished the one responsible for the report on her. To imagine that Bhaal would be capable of making such a beautiful offspring, and by him alone. Unfathomable.

‘I am not above my natural instincts, but I detect she is not so readily inclined. If I wish to pursue this particular avenue, I must be prepared and move forward with the utmost caution, for I suspect she would have no hesitation in dismembering me were I to give her cause. However, one cannot help but think it may be possible given the facts presented.

-‘She appears a little rebellious in the face of her father, for I have learned that she busks in the parks and donates the earnings to the homeless children. Perhaps that is an avenue I can take advantage of?

-‘The barkeep at Elfsong Tavern states that she plays there about once a tenday or so, and is always very friendly to customers and staff. This contradicts typical behavior that is often recorded about bhaalspawn.

-‘Possibly unrelated, but since her appearance in the city, the majority of reports of missing persons and found dead have been those with more unsavory behaviors. It is rather fortunate that my dealings with Zariel ended shortly before she appeared, as she may not be as willing to forge an alliance with me if she were to find out about that bit of nasty business. Still, this is all conjecture.

-‘I am not familiar with the customs surrounding Bhaalists, but it was rather intimate watching her taste my blood and she appeared to genuinely enjoy it.

-‘She took my handkerchief with her when she left this morning. It has my initials on it. This could be interpreted as interest, but also possibly a mistake?

-‘She came in through my window but allowed me to escort her to the door when she left. An attempt at normalizing the interaction or just being polite?

‘Perplexing. And possibly I am just being naive and wanting to see more than what is. It would only complicate matters, but it could prove mutually beneficial and enhance our trust and respect.

‘We made a plan to meet again in a tenday when our perspective tasks are complete. In the meantime, I will do my best to gather more intelligence about this mysterious Chosen.’

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 dark urge #bg3 durge #dark urge #durgetash #gortash smut #gortash x durge #lord enver gortash #fanfic #when a one shot becomes a triple take #enver gortash #bg3 gortash #lord gortash #writing #dark urge x gortash #baldur’s gate 3 #baldurs gate gortash

33 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 20 days

Text

1968 [Chapter 3: Hermes, God Of Thieves]

Word Count: 4.5k

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

They say it’s the most dangerous job in Vietnam. That’s why I wanted to do it.

Chinooks transport men and equipment, Cobras are gunships, Jolly Green Giants are used in search-and-rescue missions. But the Loach—Light Observation Helicopter—is a scout. We have to fly low enough to spot fresh footprints in mud, glints of sunlit metal, blooms of firelight from smoldering cigarettes in the primordial maze of the jungle. And when you go looking for the enemy, sometimes that’s exactly who you find. U.S. Army regulations decree that each Loach must be inspected after 300 hours of flight time, but they rarely make it that long. I’ve been shot down twice already. You roll out of the wreckage, grab your buddies, and book it out of the area before the Vietcong kill you, or worse: drag you back to the Hanoi Hilton so you can die slow.

Currently we’re just north of Pleiku, coasting close enough to the treetops that I could reach out and touch them. I’m in the back seat with my M16, no door between me and the outside world, my hair tied back with a green bandana, the wind hot and sticky. It’s so fucking humid here. Why can’t the communists be trying to take over Malta or Sweden or Monterey Bay, California?

It was the old men who suggested I might be of greatest service to the family by enlisting. I was 25, newly graduated from Columbia Law—a family tradition—and dreading the desk job that awaited me at the Department of Justice. Some people are born to type their lives away in some leather-upholstered office with a view of Pennsylvania Avenue, but not me, and I know this like I know the sun or the stars, ancient truths that can never be changed. And so when Otto and Viserys sat me down—my father had only had one stroke by that point, and was still relatively involved in the day-to-day minutia of putting a Targaryen in the White House—and said Aemond having a brother in Vietnam would make him more relatable, more sympathetic, more noble, not an observer to the carnage of the war but a fellow victim of it…I told them I’d go.

Everyone needs a project. If you don’t have something to distract you from the futility of human existence, it’ll break you in half. I have the Loach. Otto and Viserys, both immigrants ineligible to serve as president of the United States, have their shared ambition of getting their bloodlines in the Oval Office. Aemond has his legacy. My mother has her children, and Criston has my mother. Helaena has her gardens, her bugs, quiet gentle things that she tends with her own thorn-pricked hands. Aegon doesn’t have a project, he never really has, and it’s driven him to the cliff’s edge of insanity. See what I mean?

Anyway, let me tell you something about Vietnam. The Army gives us all the steak, beer, and cigarettes we can handle, but I’d kill for a lemon-lime Mr. Misty—

“Daeron, get down!” the guy to my left screams over the noise of the rotors. His name is Richie Swindell, and he’s from Omaha, Nebraska, and now he’s plummeting out of the helicopter as bullets riddle his chest. I duck low and cover my head as we spiral sideways into the trees, snapping branches, shredding leaves like confetti. I can hear the pilot yelling something, but I can’t tell what. When we hit the earth, the lightweight aluminum skin of the Loach does exactly what it’s supposed to, crumpling to absorb the shock of the collision and reduce trauma to us mortals inside. I scramble out of the rubble on my hands and knees and go to check on the pilot, but it’s too late. He’s already being hauled out by the Vietcong and gets a bullet to the brain. I reach back into the ruins of the Loach to grab my M16, but there are hands around my ankles yanking me out. And now I’m next, and there’s nowhere left to run, and I’m hoping Criston will be there to hold my mother when she gets the Western Union telegram.

One of the soldiers shouts and stops the others, shoving them aside to get a better look at me. With the barrel of his AK-47, supplied by either China or the Russians, he prods at the patch displaying my last name: Targaryen. His compatriots don’t seem impressed. Again, he batters my nametag, speaking to them in Vietnamese.

He knows who I am, I realize. He knows Aemond is running for president.

Now there is a hell of a lot of excitement. The men are talking rapidly amongst themselves, marveling at me, poking and examining me. Then two of them grab me by the arms. I look to the soldier who knows English, at least enough of it to read those nine fated letters. He smiles at me, not like a friend. Like a wolf baring its teeth.

He says: “It is okay, Targaryen boy. We just have some questions for you.”

Guess I’ll be checking into the Hanoi Hilton after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up to Aegon strumming an acoustic guitar and singing Johnny Cash. The guitar must be new. The one he left at Asteria is plain maple wood and covered in stickers; this unfamiliar instrument is a vivid, Caribbean blue and has Gibson written across the headstock.

“I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rolling ‘round the bend

And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when

I’m stuck in Folsom Prison, and time keeps draggin’ on…”

“Let me die. I’m ready to go.”

Aegon laughs, setting his new guitar aside.

“Is Ari okay?”

“Yeah, he’s doing great. And I got the stuff you asked for.”

Sure enough, there are three roomy sundresses hanging from the coatrack—you wanted to have options in case you had trouble finding one that fit correctly, though you gave Aegon a general neighborhood for sizes—as well as an array of cosmetics on the nightstand, including a bottle of shimmering champagne-colored nail polish. “I’m really impressed. You barely forgot anything. Though I will look odd with blush but no foundation.”

“Ohhhhh. Fuck.”

“And this isn’t human shampoo. It’s for dogs. That’s why it has a mastiff on the label.”

“I thought it looked like you,” Aegon says, smirking mischievously.

“Well, thanks for trying.”

“And I found this at the gift shop.” He tosses a card at you like a frisbee. You open the envelope to see a cartoon cow on the front, black and white and wearing a huge copper bell and a party hat. Inside is printed: May your graduation be legenDAIRY! Aegon has crossed it out and written instead I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf! followed by his illegible scribble of a signature.

“A cow,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “Because I’m Io.”

“You’ve got about a million of those pouring in from all over the country. Congratulations cards, get well soon cards, we really hope your husband gets elected so we aren’t consumed by nuclear Armageddon cards. And then Richard Nixon sent a pipe bomb.”

You set Aegon’s card on your nightstand, half-open so it will stay standing upright. Then you drink the apple juice from the tray the nurses left for you. “Aemond’s not here yet?”

“Uh, no, not yet,” Aegon says vaguely, kicking his feet up on the ottoman. He’s been shopping for himself too. He’s wearing a denim jacket over a black The Kinks t-shirt, ripped jeans, moccasins. He uses the remote to turn on the television: The Dating Game. “So, what did you study in college? You went to Manhattanville, right?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You really don’t listen when I talk, do you?”

“I try not to.”

“Yes, I went to Manhattanville. And I studied math.”

“No way. You didn’t major in math.”

“Women can’t do math?” you tease. “That’s sexist.”

“I didn’t say women can’t do math. I’m saying there’s no way your parents sent you to a housewife factory like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart to get a math degree.”

“They didn’t, which is why my bachelor’s is in math education. So half-math, half-kid stuff. Makes it a little more…domestic.”

“Cool. Teach me math.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah. Really.” He digs around in the pockets of his jeans until he finds a receipt, then locates a pen in the nightstand drawer. He hands both to you and then stands so he can watch over your shoulder as you work. You can smell him: cigarette smoke, rum, the cool grey rain that is falling outside. It drips off his hair, carelessly slicked back from his face.

“What’s something you don’t know how to do?” you ask, expecting to get an answer like exponents or calculating the volume of a pyramid.

“Uh. Long division.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Going all the way back to 4th grade. Alright then.” You begin writing. “So let’s take a large number—this year, 1968—and divide it by…hm…how many kids you have. So five.”

Aegon whistles. “Five kids. Goddamn.”

“Yes, and you probably couldn’t name them, but there are indeed five. Trust me, I’ve counted.”

“Okay, this is the part I don’t get. Five goes into 19 almost four times. But there’s no way to say almost four.”

“There certainly is not. Five goes into 19 three times, so we put a three up top and then subtract 15 from 19. We get four, drop down the six from 1968, and now we’re dividing 46 by five.”

“Nine.”

“Right. Five times nine is 45. So the nine goes up top and we subtract 45 from 46.”

“45 is basically 46. Let’s call it a day. Close enough.”

“No,” you insist. “We get one, then drop down the eight from 1968, which makes 18.”

“And five goes into 18 three times.”

“Where’s the three go?”

“Up top,” Aegon says, observing fixedly.

“And then we subtract…”

“15 from 18, which is three. So the answer is 393.3.”

“Wrong. Loser.”

“What! How am I wrong?!”

“You don’t just put the three after the decimal,” you say. “You drop down a zero—”

“A zero?! Where the fuck did a zero come from?”

“From the fact that 1968 is a whole number, so it’s actually 1968.0.”

“Oh.” Aegon blinks a few times. “Gotcha.”

“Add the zero after the three to get 30—”

“And 30 divided by five is six. So the answer is 393.6.”

“I am so proud. You are officially as smart as an average nine-year-old.”

He takes the receipt from you and studies it. “This was super enlightening.”

“You want to try calculus now?”

He cackles and sinks back into his plush salmon pink armchair, his miniature dominion in your hospital room kingdom. “You like teaching?”

“I love it,” you admit. “I had to do a semester of student teaching the spring before I graduated, and at first I was kind of petrified. But the kids are so hilarious and interesting and full of excitement about everything, and they’re sweet in totally unexpected ways. They’d chatter all through a lesson and make me want to jump out a five-story window, and then bring me some of their Easter candy. That’s when I realized they weren’t trying to torture me. They’re just kids.”

Aegon is meditative. “Yeah, kids are fun.”

“I wasn’t aware you had much interest in them.”

“No, I do.” And something about the way he says it makes you feel bad for taking the shot. He runs his fingers through his hair, perhaps debating how much he wants to share. “You know Viserys made us all do these little missions after college so we could learn about the real world, right?”

“Right.” Daeron spent his on lobster boats up in Maine, Helaena learned horticulture in France, Aemond helped register voters in Mississippi and Alabama. You can’t recall ever hearing about Aegon’s.

“I got sent to Yuma, Arizona to teach on the reservation there. When I stepped off the bus, I thought it was hell on earth. And then when my time was up I didn’t want to leave.”

“What did you teach?” And then you add: “Hopefully not math.”

“No, definitely not math,” he says, smiling but distant, remembering. “English. Books, poems, all that. But my favorite thing to do was take a song and break it down line by line, really get them curious about what the author was thinking. And then of course we’d all sing it together. I’d play guitar, they’d run around jumping on the furniture, it was a good time.”

“But you couldn’t stay.”

“No,” he sighs. “I had to come back here so I could get dragged kicking and screaming through law school and then married off.”

“And elected mayor of Trenton,” you say, trying to make him laugh. It works.

“Oh God, we are not talking about that. Most miserable two years of my life.”

“So far.”

“Yeah. If Aemond wins and makes me the attorney general, that might be worse.”

“Knock knock!” comes a cheerful trill from the doorway, and then Alicent and Mimi rush in. They descend upon your hospital bed, cooing and soothing, squeezing your hands and trying to smooth your untamed hair.

“What did it feel like?” Mimi is morbidly fascinated, swaying a little, eyes bleary with gin. “When they were digging around in there?”

“Well, obviously she was sedated, hon,” Aegon says, a bit impatiently. He and Mimi share a nod in greeting, no warmth, no depth. You wonder what it must be like for someone you spent so much time tangled up with to become a stranger.

“Oh, darling, I barely recognize you!” Alicent says. “You poor thing, you must be in such awful pain. I’ve never seen you like this before. Your face, your hair…”

Aegon gives her a quick, disapproving look and then lights a cigarette of the traditional variety. He puffs on it as he gazes at the window, like he’s counting the raindrops on the glass.

“I’m feeling a lot better now,” you assure Alicent.

Her eyes flick down to your belly, still swollen beneath your blankets. “Will it scar terribly, do you think?”

You shrug; you haven’t thought much about that part yet. “It’s a battle scar. Aemond gets them in the real world, I get them in here. Same war, different arenas.” You peek out into the hallway. “Is Aemond…is he with you…?”

“He wanted to be,” Alicent says, like it’s a consolation. “But, Washington, you know…the primary there is so close. So, so close. He kept saying that he and Humphrey were neck and neck, and they still are, I believe. Every vote counts, and he’s campaigning all over the Puget Sound.”

“He’s still in Washington?” Your voice is flat with disbelief, with disapproval.

“He wishes he could be here with you and the baby,” Alicent insists, stroking your hair. “I’m sure he’ll fly back as soon as he’s able. But he’s thinking of you so, so much. That’s why he let me and Mimi leave this morning.”

“Right,” you reply numbly. And then you remember what you’re supposed to say. “The election is important. It affects everyone, our son included. For the greater good, personal sacrifices are necessary.”

“We saw him,” Alicent tells you, radiant with joy. “Aristos Apollo.”

“So precious,” Mimi says. “But so small! And trapped in that hideous machine! We could only see him through those little round windows.”

Aegon casts her a violent glare. You are alarmed. “He’s not in an incubator?”

“They have him in a…what was it called, Mimi?” Alicent asks. Mimi has nothing useful to contribute. “A hyperbaric chamber, I think. To help him get more oxygen.”

“But he’s fine,” Aegon says firmly, giving his wife and mother a warning. “Didn’t the doctor say it was a precaution?”

“He did, he did,” Alicent promises you. “Yes, just a precaution, that’s what we were told. The doctor has been trying to reach Aemond, apparently, but since he landed in Washington, he’s never in one place for long…”

“We should buy gifts for the baby,” Mimi says excitedly. “Adorable hats and shirts and trousers. Although even the tiniest clothes might be too big for him right now.”

“Yes, gifts! We must shop for gifts. Oh, it’s all been such a whirlwind. We hurried off the plane to come straight here, love,” Alicent tells you. “Can Mimi and I get you something for dinner?”

“Sure, sure.” You are distracted, still thinking of Ari. “Anything is fine. Wherever you end up.”

“Would you like me to bring a priest to pray with you? Saint Nicholas Church is right around the corner.”

You smile. “That’s very kind, but I think I’d prefer some books.”

“Baby clothes, dinner, and books. We can do that. Can’t we, Mimi?”

“We absolutely can,” Mimi agrees with tipsy, girlish enthusiasm.

As an afterthought, Alicent says: “Aegon, have you been here all this time? You must be exhausted. We’re going to book a suite at the Plaza, there will be plenty of room for you too. We can drop you off there on our way to go shopping, if you’d like.”

“I’ll stay,” he says softly, watching the rain again.

Alicent’s brow furrows; her dark doe-like eyes are puzzled. “Alright, dear.” Then she and Mimi disappear into the hall.

“Is he really okay?” you ask Aegon when they’re gone.

“Yes. That’s exactly what the doctor told me, just a precaution. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Aegon,” you say, and don’t continue until he meets your eyes. “Why are you still here?”

He lights a fresh cigarette. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

“I’m not alone anymore. Alicent visits me, Mimi visits me.”

“Yeah, but you feel like you have to put on a show for them. Play the perfect Targaryen wife with all that stoic, dignified, unshakable faith. You hate me, so there isn’t as much pressure.”

“I don’t hate you, Aegon.”

“Yes you do. You always have. You don’t have to be polite about it.”

“Well…I have valid reasons to hate you.”

He smiles, exhaling smoke. “Right.”

“And you hate me too.”

Now he shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Everybody worships you, everybody thinks I’m a waste of chromosomes, is it really that hard to psychoanalyze?”

“No one worships me. They worship Aemond.”

“But you’re a package deal. Jack and Jackie, Franklin and Eleanor.”

You trace the lines in your palm with a fingertip, not knowing what to say. You’re so close to Aemond, so inseparable, and yet so vastly far. “Will you wheel me downstairs to see Ari after dinner?” It’s best to go at night when there are less staff around to try to stop you.

“Sure. You want a Mr. Misty?”

“Yeah. Lemon-lime.” That’s what he brought you last time, and it wasn’t bad for a cardboard cup of florescent green sugar water.

“Got it,” Aegon says, and leaves you alone.

You look at the phone on your nightstand. You’ve tried to call Aemond to no avail, though you spoke to Criston twice; on both occasions he said Aemond was in the middle of an interview. It’s understandable that you would have difficulty getting ahold of your husband while he’s off campaigning, leaping from town to town like an electric current. There’s nothing unusual about it at all. But Aemond could call you anytime he likes. You haven’t moved; he knows exactly where you are.

You keep staring at the phone. It doesn’t ring.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s night again, and you swim up from morphine-soft dreams into your hospital room, dark except for the flashing color of the television, low volume, NBC news. Aegon is curled up in the chair he’s claimed, snoring and half-covered with a cheap, pale blue hospital blanket. And it’s a strange feeling—a foreign language, a new religion—to realize that you’re relieved to see he’s still here, that there’s a comfort in it, a safety.

Suddenly, Aemond is on the television screen. You sit up in bed as gingerly as you can, leaning in, listening close. He’s rarely looked better: blue suit, prosthetic eye, rested and measured and sharp. He’s giving a speech at the Hotel Sorrento in Seattle, three hours behind the time you’re living in on the East Coast. Flanking him on the stage are Criston, Otto, Helaena, Fosco, the eight charming children. Five-year-old Cosmo keeps waving at the camera.

“Right now, my wife and newborn son are at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City,” Aemond says, beaming, and the audience whistles and cheers. You should smile, but you can’t. He’s not supposed to be there. He’s supposed to be on his way home. “But tonight I’m here with all of you, fighting with everything I’m made of to win the great state of Washington. And I won’t leave until the job is done, because I know the greatest act of devotion that any of us can show our children is to ensure they grow up in a better America than the one we find ourselves in today…”

You look over at Aegon and see that his glassy eyes are open, watching the television just like you are. You don’t know how long he’s been awake. The two of you exchange a glance, and there is a silent, shared recognition of what won’t be said. You can’t criticize your husband. Aegon isn’t going to kick you while you’re down. You are grateful for this. It is a conviction he has only recently acquired.

Aegon pulls his blanket up to his chin and rolls over, turning away from you. You close your eyes and dream of being a child back in Tarpon Springs, mesmerized as you watch Greek sponge divers emerge from the bubbling depths in their suits of rubber armor.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the afternoon of the 13th. The Washington State Democratic Convention is being held tonight, and so win or lose Aemond will be walking into Mount Sinai Hospital tomorrow. He has to, he doesn’t have a choice. He’ll have no excuse to be anywhere else, and journalists will be swarming at the entranceway like bull sharks in the Gulf of Mexico.

It’s raining again. You’re reading one of the books that Alicent brought you, Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care. You had been meaning to get a copy before you were consumed by Aemond’s campaign and then his near-assassination, his maiming, his fleeting brush with oblivion. Aegon is cross-legged in the salmon pink armchair and plucking lazily at his guitar, singing so low no one outside the room would be able to hear him. It’s a Rolling Stones song, slow and mournful.

“You don��t know what’s going on

You’ve been away for far too long

You can’t come back and think you are still mine.”

As you flip a page and raindrops patter gently against the window, you find yourself thinking how easy this is, your hair undone and your feet bare, no photos to take or lines to remember, no practiced smiles, no overwrought itineraries, only compassion that is quiet and small and real.

“Well, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time

I said, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time…”

Aegon abruptly stops playing, cutting off with a twang. You look up at him. He’s gazing back with eyes that are filling up his face, glistening with horror. You turn to find out what he’s seen. There’s a doctor standing in the doorway, but he’s not alone. There’s a Greek Orthodox priest with him.

“Mrs. Targaryen,” the doctor begins, then glances to the priest. The holy man—black robes, gold chains, clasping a komboskini like the one Aemond keeps in a box on his writing desk at Asteria, stained with his own blood—gives an encouraging nod. “We’ve tried to reach your husband. We’ve called his hotel in Tacoma several times, but the senator must be out campaigning, and…” Again, he looks to the priest. Aegon is setting his guitar on the floor, covering his mouth with his hands.

Ari. Too early, too fragile, too defenseless in a world full of wolves.

Your words come out in a whisper. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

“We must remember, child,” the priest tells you, vague patronizing pity. “That the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, but what is lost to us in this life is never truly gone. Those we love wait for us on the other side in paradise—”

“Please leave. I don’t want to talk to a priest. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

I just gave birth to him. I just started to believe he was mine.

The doctor begins: “Ma’am, I’m so sorry to have to deliver this news—”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone, I want to be alone. So please leave,” you beg, your voice breaking. “I want to be alone. Please leave me alone.”

The doctor looks to Aegon. A man’s permission is sought. “Go,” Aegon manages, raspy and strangled, and the doctor obeys.

“God bless you and your husband, Mrs. Targaryen,” the priest says as he departs with a swift bow. You can’t reply. You’re biting back sobs as the tears begin to slither down your cheeks, scalding and furious, not just grief but the bottomless rage of Nemesis.

Aegon is watching you, not knowing what to do, not knowing what you need.

Aemond would want you to be stoic. Aemond would want you to have faith, forbearance, grace. “It is God’s will.”

“Hey.” Aegon reaches across the space between you, grabs your hand, holds it so tightly your bones ache. Still, you wouldn’t want him to let go. “You’re allowed to be fucked up about this. I am too.”

When your eyes drift to him, they are glaring and heartsick and poisonous. “Where’s Aemond?” Why isn’t he here?

Aegon sighs deeply and picks up the phone with his free hand. He spins the rotary dial with his index finger and then holds the handset to his ear. He waits as it rings. “Pantages Theater, Tacoma, Washington,” he tells the operator. A minute or more crawls by. “I need to speak to Senator Targaryen immediately. Yes, I know there’s a convention underway there, that’s why I’m calling you. Go get him.” More minutes, eternal, terrible beyond description. “What do you mean you can’t find him?!” Aegon snaps. “Okay, give me someone else. Anyone travelling with him. Criston Cole, Fosco Viviani, Otto Hightower, Helaena Targaryen. Hurry up. Let’s go.”

Outside the rain grows heavy and loud; it falls in sheets against the misty windows. In the distance, thunder growls.

“Hi, Criston, it’s me. He needs to come home now. Right now.”

Aegon closes his eyes. Criston must be arguing with him.

“No, you don’t understand,” Aegon says, forcing the words to leave his lips and ride the wires to the West Coast, to where the sun sets, to where the future is dawning. He’s still holding your hand. “Aemond doesn’t have a son anymore.”

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon targaryen x you

170 notes · View notes

eretzyisrael · 4 months

Text

by Dion J. Pierre

Ackerman brought the issue before the Rutgers Student Bar Association (SBA), a student government body of which Ackerman was a member. However, he was accused of racism and subjected on Oct. 26 to what the lawsuit describes as a three-hour “struggle session” in which his SBA law school colleagues pelted him with insults.

“During this meeting, several students whom Mr. Ackerman had never interacted with before testified against him,” said the complaint, filed in the Superior Court of New Jersey in Essex County. “For example, law student JM, targeted, discriminated, bullied, harassed, and retaliated against Mr. Ackerman. She falsely accused Mr. Ackerman of threatening to dox her and other students — without any evidence. JM moved to impeach Ackerman from the SBA, and to intimidate Mr. Ackerman and other Jewish students.”

“The Rutgers SBA and JM were seeking to chill the speech of Ackerman — as a Jewish person,” the complaint continues. “The content and tone of the SBA hearing were designed or allowed to air antisemitic bias with the intent of discriminating, threatening, harassing, and bullying Jewish law students, including Mr. Ackerman.”

The complaint summarizes in detail Ackerman’s attempts to file formal complaints about the video and the treatment he received, focusing on the conduct of Katherine Perez, an assistant dean in the law school whom the suit names as a defendant. It charges that Perez never watched the video about which Ackerman complained and, in retaliation, charged him with defamation and disorderly conduct. Later, Perez told Ackerman that a complaint he had filed lacked merit and would not be investigated.

Ackerman’s attorneys said in a press release that he will on Thursday attend a final disciplinary hearing that will determine whether he is expelled from school.

“In sum, Rutgers plans to hold this ‘kangaroo court’ in which they refuse to permit Ackerman to be represented by counsel (who cannot speak or otherwise advocate on Mr. Ackerman’s behalf), and have failed to advise him of the witnesses who will testify against him, and which ostensibly will be presided over by the very person who initiated and brought the charges, against him,” the suit says.

The Algemeiner has reached out to Rutgers to confirm the details concerning the hearing on Thursday.

Ackerman additionally alleges the ordeal he experienced has caused medical complications, and he is seeking compensatory and punitive damages.

“It is time to speak out,” Ackerman said on Tuesday during a press conference. “Just five days after the largest attack and attempt at genocide against the Jewish people since the Holocaust, one of my peers shared a video that was highly offensive and in my opinion antisemitic … What has resulted since is nothing more than an attempt by Rutgers and other students to silence my right to speak out against antisemitism. I will not be silent in the face of hatred towards Jews.

#rutgers university #antisemitism #lawsuit #yoel ackerman #title vi #us civil rights act #title vi of the us civil rights act #rutgers

18 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 2 months

Text

On February 8, an Oklahoma transgender teen named Nex Benedict died. While an exact cause of death has yet to be determined, we know that Nex was involved in a violent altercation with three girls in a girls’ bathroom at Owasso High School. The next day, Nex died. (According to reporting from NBC News, Nex identified as transgender and preferred he/him pronouns, but also used they/them pronouns.)

We also know from Nex’s family and friends that Nex experienced routine bullying and harassment at school because of his transgender identity—as did other LGBTQ+ youth according to a number of media accounts. What’s more, this harassment is taking place in a state where anti-LGBTQ+ legislation and rhetoric has proliferated in recent years. In 2022, Governor Kevin Stitt signed into law requirements that prevent trans youth from using the bathroom that matches their gender identity. (Nex’s mother said in a recent interview that the bullying Nex experienced intensified after the Oklahoma bathroom bill went into effect). What’s worse, Oklahoma’s state superintendent of education has vehemently attacked any efforts to make schools more inclusive for LGBTQ+ youth and is on the record stating his belief that transgender and nonbinary people do not exist.

On March 1, 2024, the U.S. Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights (OCR) announced that it was launching an investigation into Owasso Public Schools over concerns that the district failed to adequately respond to allegations of sex-based harassment (under Title IX of the Education Amendments of 1972, which prohibits discrimination on the basis of sex). The investigation was opened in response to a civil rights complaint filed by the Human Rights Campaign (HRC)—an LGBTQ+ advocacy group.

In this post, I’ll outline what happens once OCR opens a new investigation, what I’m hoping to see from this investigation in particular, and why I’m ultimately skeptical of this enforcement tool as a lever for bringing about meaningful change.

What does it mean that OCR opened an investigation?

OCR enforces Title IX and other federal civil rights laws in publicly funded educational institutions—including all K-12 public schools. The agency’s primary enforcement tool is investigations into potential civil rights violations. Most investigations are opened in response to civil rights complaints received by the agency.

The bar for OCR to investigate a civil rights complaint is low. And that’s by design. OCR’s civil rights complaint process is intended to be a low-cost avenue available to parents, families, and community advocates concerned about potential violations in public schools—one that does not require hiring legal representation to pursue. But that also means we should not read too much meaning into the fact that ED opened a new investigation. OCR opening an investigation does not mean federal officials suspect that a civil rights violation took place. It only means that a complaint alleging a form of discrimination enforceable (in this case, Title IX) by OCR was made in a timely manner.

What happens once an investigation is opened?

The goal of an OCR investigation is to determine whether an alleged civil rights violation took place and to decide what district reforms are appropriate based on what the investigation uncovered. In practice, the scope and scale of OCR investigations varies widely. Sometimes OCR conducts large-scale investigations that include multiple site visits and meetings with a wide variety of stakeholders. Other times, OCR interviews only a few stakeholders alongside a review of extant documents and data. When and why OCR deploys more investigatory resources are unknown, but that means it is difficult to predict exactly what shape this investigation into Owasso Public Schools will take.

It is also unclear how far-reaching this investigation will be. In some cases, OCR only investigates allegations related to the specific incident outlined in the complaint. In other words, were Nex’s civil rights violated by Owasso Public Schools? In others, OCR investigators interrogate whether the alleged incident is one part of a broader pattern of civil rights abuses taking place. In other words, are LGBTQ+ students’ civil rights routinely violated in Owasso Public Schools? These differences may seem subtle but are hugely consequential for the ultimate scope of the investigation and the scale of any proposed district reforms.

OCR’s letter notifying HRC that an investigation was being opened seems to imply the latter approach—stating that OCR will investigate “whether the District failed to appropriately respond to alleged harassment of students” [emphasis added]. This is critical if OCR aims to address the conditions that led to the harassment and bullying that Nex experienced, especially considering reports of numerous other instances of harassment of LGBTQ+ youth in Owasso Public Schools.

It is also important to underscore that OCR is one relatively small federal agency that has not been adequately staffed or funded for at least the last two decades. This has become an acute challenge over the last several years as OCR’s caseload has exploded and as Assistant Secretary Catherine Lhamon has prioritized more systemic investigations. The consequence of this reality is that investigations can take years, and still not be particularly thorough. At best, an investigation like this could take less than a year. At worst, it could be several years before it is resolved.

What should happen next?

Most OCR investigations are not instigated by an incident as tragic as this one. It is imperative that OCR investigators handle this case with care. At minimum, that should include careful engagement with Nex’s family and friends (to the extent they wish to be involved), along with other members of the school’s LGBTQ+ community.

Hearing directly from LGBTQ+ students is also critical considering Owasso Public Schools’ initial response to news of the investigation. Per an official statement, while the district intends to cooperate with federal investigators, it “believes the complaint submitted by H.R.C. is not supported by the facts and is without merit.” Initial reporting also reflects inconsistencies between what Nex’s family and friends said took place, versus the school district and the police departments’ official accounts. Moreover, Oklahoma’s state superintendent, Ryan Walters, has publicly denied that Nex’s death had anything to do with his gender identity even as the criminal investigation into Nex’s death remains ongoing.

This context underscores how important it is that OCR works to draw its own conclusions about the bullying and harassment of Nex and other LGBTQ+ students in Owasso Public Schools rather than relying on conclusions drawn by the district and police department.

What might come of this investigation?

In theory, if a school district is found in violation of civil rights law, OCR can rescind federal funding or have the case referred to the Department of Justice for further judicial action.

In practice, findings of civil rights violations are exceedingly rare. Most investigations that lead to mandated reforms are resolved through negotiations between OCR and a district. OCR’s policies favor negotiated settlements over more forceful enforcement actions at every step of the investigation process. Thus, unless a school district is blatantly and repeatedly refusing to cooperate with OCR, the likelihood of some penalty for violating civil rights law is very small.

The agency’s preference for negotiating with districts also means that the resulting resolution agreements often include reforms that seem mild, at best, and wildly insufficient, at worst. Take, for example, a recent resolution agreement OCR entered into with Rhinelander Public Schools in Wisconsin. This case, like the Owasso investigation, involved persistent harassment of a gender non-conforming student by some teachers and students and a district’s repeated failure to adequately respond. In the negotiated settlement, the district agreed to 1) assess whether compensatory instructional time was owed to the harassed student; 2) provide trainings to both staff and high school students on what constitutes sex-based harassment under Title IX and the district’s Title IX grievance process; 3) improve how it documents accusations of sex-based harassment; 4) conduct a school climate survey “to assess the prevalence of sex-based harassment and obtain suggestions for effective ways to address harassment.”

Of these actions, only one was directly aimed at improving the school environment for LGBTQ+ students–mandatory trainings for staff and high school students. Putting aside the fact that OCR’s standard Title IX reforms seem insufficient to remedy widespread harassment of LGBTQ+ students—especially in a state where the top education official’s anti-LGBTQ+ biases are on full display, a large body of evidence indicates that these types of one-off anti-discrimination or diversity trainings are often ineffective.

Thus, unless OCR officials take a radically different approach in this case (which I hope they do given the gravity of the incident), the outcomes of this investigation are–unfortunately—unlikely to bring about significant reforms in Owasso Public Schools.

What can ED do to prevent discrimination against LGBTQ+ students?

The Biden administration’s long-awaited and much delayed updated Title IX regulations are expected to be released next month. This overhaul of Title IX is notable for several reasons, including that it codifies the Department’s interpretation that Title IX protections extend to discrimination based on gender identity and sexual orientation.

The pending adoption of the new Title IX regulations is particularly important in this case because in July 2022 a federal judge in Tennessee temporarily blocked ED from enforcing its new interpretation of Title IX after 20 conservative states—including Oklahoma—filed a lawsuit to stop its enforcement. This meant that OCR’s ability to enforce this more expansive interpretation of Title IX had been severely limited until the new regulations were formally in place.

This is not to say that updated Title IX regulations alone will be sufficient, and they will undoubtedly be challenged in federal court as Republican lawmakers and attorneys general have made clear. But its delays have led to an environment where districts must choose between complying with state law or federal guidance and where the rights of LGBTQ+ students remain painfully unclear—and in lots of states, including Oklahoma, under attack.

17 notes · View notes