#also. the call (fascism) is coming from inside the house | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

queenshelby · 4 years ago

Text

The Judge’s Daughter (Part One)

Featuring: Tommy Shelby x Virgin!Reader

Words: 8,700

Warning: Angst, Blood, Gore, Mention of Suicide, Mention of Miscarriage, Drugs, Racism, Smut

Tag List:

@lilymurphy03 @deefigs @theflamecrystal @chrisevanshoeee @desperate-and-broken @weepingstudentfishhorse @captivatedbycillianmurphy @fookingshelby @livinginfantaxy @rosey1981 @atomicsoulcollecto @peakyboyslover @nerdy4itall @elenavampire21 @hanster1998 @mariapaiva13 @fairypitou @harry-is-my-sunflower @zozeebo @lauren-raines-x

………

Challenging Times

In early 1930, times were hard. The Wall Street crash in 1929 caused many men to lose their fortune. Your family had also lost money on the stock exchange. A lot of money.

Your father was a wealthy judge and now, he was just a judge. Your family home had to be sold and your father moved into a medium sized apartment in London with one of his maids.

Since your mother had passed away in 1920, your father had often sought comfort in his employees. There was one maid in particular who was of interest to him. Her name was Catherine and she was 10 years your father’s junior.

You accepted his relationship with her but soon felt uncomfortable to live with them in the London Apartment.

But your father wasn’t the only family member who lost his fortune in the stock market crash. Your brother had also lost a lot of money. So much money that he could not repay his gambling debt to one of London’s most notorious criminals.

As a result, your brother committed suicide. His mental health had always been troubled ever since he’s been to France, fighting for England in the First World War. Your brother was much older than you and it was almost a miracle when your mother fell pregnant again and gave birth to you after three miscarriages.

Your brother adored you and protected you whenever necessary. He was kind hearted but, unfortunately, got himself involved with the wrong people on several occasions which is when he began gambling.

Following your brother’s death, your father struck a deal with the man to whom the gambling debt was owed, releasing three of his gang members from prison.

The debt was forgiven and you inherited your brother’s small cottage north of London. Regardless of your father’s actions, he began to despise criminals who involved themselves in illegal gambling activities. Your father was known to be particularly harsh when it came to offences of this kind.

He once told you a story about a man who used to be a prominent criminal who made his fortune through race fixing and illegal gambling activities. That man was now a member of parliament and your father despised him.

Being Jewish, your father’s hate for this man increased even more when he became the deputy leader of the British Union of Fascists.

The man’s name was Thomas Shelby and you met him once at a gala organised by the socialist party in Westminster. He was a smart man but he was also extremely rude and insulted your father at the gala following a dispute they had earlier in the day.

Your father threatened him and told him that, one day, he will ensure his downfall. It was your father’s mission and it was dangerous.

With that threat in mind and heated political events unfolding around the country, your father asked you to move to the countryside. Take up your brother’s cottage and lay low until things were taking a turn.

It took you quite some time to build up the courage to move into the house where your brother took his own life. But, you eventually did, taking up your brother’s work at the property while attending nursing school every second week.

The cottage was free standing but behind a larger house owned by wealthy Londoners. Their wealth seemed to have been unaffected by the stock market crash and, just as your brother did, you attended their yards and animals on the small farm in exchange for a wage and free food from the produce.

You also spent some time renovating the cottage which was rather dated.

The cottage had two bedrooms, one of which you converted entirely to a studio for your paintings. You enjoyed painting and you were quite good at it.

The other bedroom you redecorated with your own furniture.

The downstairs area consisted out of a small living room with a fire place and a small kitchen and bathroom.

It wasn’t much, but it was a place you could call your own. It was home.

Initially following your move, you would travel to London occasionally to visit your father and his mistress. You wondered when he would finally propose to her. She had been waiting for years.

When you visited, you would often sit in one of his open hearings. You were quite interested in the political and legal situation in the country especially following recent events.

Notably, it has been six weeks since the assassination attempt on Oswald Mosley, the leader of the British Union of Fascists.

Being Jewish yourself, you, just like your father, despised fascism.

The event at which the assassination attempt occurred was visited by many Jews, protesting against the establishment of the party and their obscure ideas. Despite your father’s instructions not to get involved, you were one of the protestors on the day and, although not openly, you have been associating yourself with the communists.

Your newfound friend Jesse Eden had since led several more protests you attended. Being only 20 years young, you believed that you could make a difference and convince people that their support for fascism was wrong and immoral.

The problem was that your father was at the centre of it all.

Following the assassination attempt on Oswald Mosley, two Jews were arrested and appeared in your father’s court. The prosecution didn’t have enough evidence for a conviction and the men walked free.

No one really knew who was behind the assassination attempt. There were no witnesses and everyone who may have witnessed the attack had since been found dead.

Regardless of this, for some reason, the leaders of the British Union of Fascists seem to have believed that a Jewish man by the name of Alfie Solomons was behind the attack. But there was one little problem, Alfie Solomon was dead. Or wasn’t he?

The men that were arrested used to work for Alfie Solomons and took the fall until your father set them free for lack of evidence.

A week after this decision, a Jewish owned factory was bombed. The factory was owned by the men who were set free by your father and a company owned by a Trust.

Ten men were killed and, following some arrests, it became evident that Jimmy McCavern was behind the attack.

Jimmy McCavern was the leader of the Billy Boys and, over the course of another week, your father was able to make a connection through some documents admitted to evidence between Jimmy McCavern, Alfie Solomons and a man named Thomas Shelby who was the deputy leader of the British Union of Fascists.

An arrest warrant was issued against Jimmy McCavern and Thomas Shelby by the London police following your father’s advice to them. Since, apparently, Alfie Solomons was dead, no arrest warrant could be made against him.

Thomas Shelby was the first member of parliament who was subject to such warrant and your father may have just, like this, gotten himself a lot of enemies.

The men he had against him now were not only the Billy Boys but also the Peaky Blinders and it was too dangerous for you to continue to visit him in London.

Unfortunately, little did you know that the danger was about to lurk just in front of your doorstep.

An Unexpected Visit

It was a Wednesday evening at 8pm that you heard a rather loud knock on the front door of your cottage.

You didn’t expect anyone and approached the door with your loaded gun. It’s not that you had ever shot a gun, but you bought yourself one two days ago just in case you needed it.

‘Who is it?’ you asked from behind the closed door.

‘It’s Jesse Eden’ you’ve heard from behind the door and you immediately recognised Jesse’s voice.

You put the gun aside and unlocked the door.

To your surprise, Jesse wasn’t alone and your chin dropped as you saw the man standing right in front of you. You remembered him. He was the man who stood beside Oswald Mosley during his speech in Birmingham and you had met him before at a gala at Westminster.

His name was Thomas Shelby.

‘I think we have met before Miss Rosenberg’ Tommy said.

‘Yes, we have Mr Shelby’ you said nervously and frightened at the same time. You immediately wondered whether Jesse was under duress by him. Why otherwise would he be here with her you wondered.

You invited them both inside after Jesse made the request to come in. She wasn’t sure whether they had been followed.

To your surprise, Jesse soon told you that she required your help. According to her, Thomas Shelby had to lay low due to the arrest warrant issued by the London police.

If Thomas Shelby was to be arrested, he may be killed in prison before a hearing could be conducted.

Accordingly, Jesse asked you to hide him at your house until the charges against him are dropped.

‘You mean until the chief of police has been bribed enough to drop the charges?’ you chuckled in response to her request.

‘I wish it would be that easy Love’ Tommy said as he looked at the pictures on your living room wall. His hands were in his pockets and he almost looked unbothered by the situation.

‘You cannot be serious Jesse. You seriously want me to hide this man at my house?’ you said in disbelieve.

‘I am afraid I am serious Y/N’ Jesse responded.

‘Well, a fascist hiding at the house of a Jew, how ironic’ you said angrily, still unsure why Jesse was helping him.

‘I know we have gotten off on the wrong foot at the Westminster gala Miss Rosenberg, but I would greatly appreciate your help’ Tommy said, recalling his argument with your father in your presence in late 1929.

‘You think Mr Shelby?’ you chuckled. ‘You insulted my father and my entire family’ you said.

‘And for that, I apologise’ Tommy said politely but firmly.

‘Jesse, you need to explain to me why you are helping this man. I do not understand it’ you said.

‘I cannot give you more information Y/N. You just need to trust me on this, alright?’ Jesse asked almost fearfully.

‘Alright, but why me?’ you pondered.

‘Because you are the daughter of the judge hearing this matter. No one will think to look for me here, at your house’ Tommy explained.

‘Jesus’ was all you could respond with to Tommy’s comment.

‘Y/N, trust me, please. It’s for the cause’ Jesse said.

‘I find this hard to believe, but alright, he can stay’ you responded.

Not long after you agreed to house the deputy leader of the British Union of Fascists, Thomas Shelby, Jesse made her way back to Birmingham. It was a three-hour drive and she had to hurry before anyone became suspicious.

‘You will have to sleep on the lounge. Please help yourself to any food, water and drinks’ you said while you walked into another room to fetch a blanket, pillow and change of clothes for Tommy.

You still held on to your brother’s clothes which should have fitted Thomas just fine.

‘I thank you for your hospitality Miss Rosenberg and I apologise for intruding your space. I should be out of your hair within the week’ Tommy said as you came back to the living room and handed him everything he needed for his stay.

‘I am doing this for Jesse, not for you Mr Shelby. Although I do not quite understand why she is helping you’ you said just before you sat down in one of the arm chairs.

‘Let’s just say, we had a thing once, eh’ Tommy smirked.

‘I didn’t think that she would fall for a man like you’ you said.

‘A man like me, eh?’ Tommy chuckled.

‘Yes, a socialist turning to fascism. It’s rather disappointing’ you said.

‘Sometimes we do what we have to do Miss Rosenberg’ Tommy said.

‘Yes, if we didn’t, you wouldn’t be staying here, trust me’ you said before excusing yourself.

You made your way to your studio, painting and drinking wine. It was what you enjoyed most and you wanted to space from the stranger now living with you in the small cottage. A man you had literally nothing in common with and who you despised.

While you were painting, Tommy made use of your telephone and enjoyed some of your late brother’s whiskey.

It was obvious to you that he was struggling with being cooped up in your cottage and, just as your thoughts got lost in your paintings, you heard some a cracking noise near the door of your studio.

‘What are you doing?’ you asked as you noticed Tommy walking into your studio, looking through your many paintings.

‘You are talented. These paintings are extraordinary’ Tommy said.

‘Thank you, Mr Shelby’ you said with surprise. Had he really just complimented you?

His presence and closeness sent shivers down your spine. It wasn’t that you were frightened but you were clearly intimidated.

‘What are your plans, Miss Rosenberg?’ Tommy asked as he kept looking through the paintings.

‘My plans?’ you asked.

‘Your plans for the future? What are they?’ Tommy asked.

‘I am studying to become a nurse. Perhaps, one day get married and have children. The usual’ you said shyly.

‘Well, let me tell you, marriage is overrated’ Tommy chuckled before he asked how old you were.

‘I am 20’ you responded.

‘Still young with a life of opportunities ahead of you. Don’t waste them on the cause’ Tommy said.

‘Coming from a man who wastes his political career on fascism’ you said, causing Tommy to chuckle.

Your comment instantly sparked a political debate between you and Tommy which soon erupted into a heated argument.

During the argument he told you that you were too young to understand, ignorant and naïve and you were keen to throw him out of your house right then and there.

But, you bit your tongue and reminded yourself of the promise you made to Jesse.

You couldn’t stand him and his arrogance any longer and went to your bedroom, leaving him to debate about politics with himself.

Things Must Change

The next morning, you woke up early to attend the garden, ignoring Tommy as you left the house.

But, it wasn’t long until Tommy joined you in the garden. It was obvious to you that he was clearly bored.

‘What happened to the people who lived at the large house over there?’ Tommy asked as he walked outside to have a cigarette. You didn’t allow him to smoke inside the house.

‘They are in France for their annual vacation. Apparently, their fortune was unaffected by the stock market crash’ you responded.

‘Lucky them eh’ Tommy grinned as he grabbed some of the leather gardening cloves and a bucket from the side of the house.

Wearing his expensive suit and with the bucket in his hand and a cigarette in his mouth he walked over to the berry bushes where you were standing.

‘I might as well make myself useful eh’ he said jokingly as he began picking some berries.

‘Uhm yeah…but these aren’t ripe’ you giggled as you observed Tommy picking off some of the raspberries.

‘Right. Well, I usually don’t garden’ Tommy chuckled.

‘I couldn’t tell’ you laughed, causing Tommy to smile back at you.

This was the first time you noticed him smile. It was a gentle smile and it suited him.

Tommy helped you in the garden for the remainder of the day. It wasn’t like he had something else to do other than make phone calls to his brother and someone by the name of Kent.

You managed to keep your arguments to a minimum and you started to worry that you were slowly beginning to enjoy his company.

Later that evening, following dinner, you even sat down together in front of the fireplace in the living room to drink whiskey and wine and make some conversation.

‘I have been checking on your calls, contacting the directory because I wanted to make sure that I am safe with you being here. I have been told that the last call from my number was made to the Crown Investigations Office’ you said with surprise as you poured Tommy a glass of whiskey. After everything that happened in the past, you still didn’t trust him.

‘That’s correct’ Tommy said.

‘The only reason I could think of as to why you were talking to an officer of the Crown while you have an arrest warrant against you is if you were working for the Crown yourself. Otherwise, you would be mad tipping them’ you said.

‘I was just trading information that might be useful. In exchange, I am hoping for the arrest warrant against me to be dropped’ Tommy explained.

‘Mr Shelby, do you actually believe in fascism? I have not heard you speak about your party’s ideals since you’ve been here. We spoke about politics but you still seem to be a socialist at heart. So tell me, why do you follow this mad man Mosely? I am curious’ you said.

‘The thing about political parties is that they take the course into the direction in which they are steered. Much like a car. But just like with a car, if you fill it with the wrong fuel and the engine breaks down as a result, you will be going nowhere’ Tommy said as he took a drink.

‘And you are the fuel Mr Shelby?’ you asked with curiosity.

‘Yes, I am the fuel Miss Rosenberg’ he said.

‘Your intention is to undermine Mosley on behalf of the Crown. Jesse knew and this is why she helped you, isn’t it?’ you said after pondering on about what Tommy had just told you.

‘And now that you know this as well, it makes you my accomplice. I might be able to use your help Miss Rosenberg’ Tommy said.

‘If it helps to end fascism, perhaps I am willing to give it’ you said with a smile. ‘But I am curious now Mr Shelby. Was it you who initiated the attack on Mosley?’ you asked.

‘I rather not answer Miss Rosenberg’ Tommy said.

‘I understand. Also, you can call me Y/N now that we aren’t enemies after all’ you said.

‘Alright Y/N, then I insist that you call me Tommy’ he responded.

After some more conversation you decided that it was time for you to make your way to bed. It was late and you had to get up early to attend the animals.

Nightmares

Falling asleep that night was easy. You felt much safer now despite Tommy’s presence. You knew he wasn’t going to harm you.

But just as easy as you had fallen asleep, you were woken up by a loud noise coming from the living room at 1am.

‘Tommy, are you alright?’ you asked worryingly as you walked downstairs in a haste, wearing nothing but your silk nightgown.

‘My apologies, I didn’t intend to wake you’ Tommy said as he sat on the lounge, covered in sweat.

You initially thought that he might haven gotten sick until you saw a small empty bottle on the living room table. Your brother used to have one just like it which he carried around everywhere. It contained Liquid Opium and helped him sleep. He took it every night until, one day, he stopped. The withdrawal was barely manageable and his addiction soon rebounded.

You knew what this was. You had seen it before.

‘I will make you some tea to help you sleep’ you said kindly as you observed Tommy’s struggles.

‘I don’t think that tea will help me sleep Love’ Tommy chuckled.

‘My brother used to have nightmares after France. When he returned home, my mother made this for him and he managed to get at least some sleep. It’s worth a try’ you said with a warm smile. You knew Tommy had been to France. You had spoken about it when you spoke about your brother earlier that evening.

‘I suppose why not, eh’ Tommy said as he walked to the bathroom to clean himself off with a cold wet flannel.

After you put on the kettle, you walked to the studio and grabbed some more of your brother’s clothes.

‘These should fit you’ you said shyly as you handed Tommy a clean plain shirt and pants.

‘Thank you, Y/N’ he said as he took the clothes.

This was the first time you saw Tommy without a shirt and, despite his level of exhaustion, it was quite a sight. He certainly was a very attractive man.

After Tommy had gotten himself changed, you sat down next to him and handed him the cup of tea.

‘Do you want to talk?’ you asked.

‘It’s the middle of the night Y/N, you should get some sleep’ Tommy said.

‘It’s alright. I am not tired’ you said with a warm smile.

That night Tommy spoke with you about everything. About France and his late wife Grace who visited him in his dreams. He didn’t know why, but he felt as though he could talk to you and trust you.

At 4am, you eventually fell asleep on the lounge next to Tommy which is where you woke up the next morning covered with a warm blanket.

The fire was lid and there was a note on the coffee table as you woke.

‘Borrowed your hunting rifle, will be back by 8’ the note said.

You didn’t know how to hunt and had been telling Tommy how your brother shot bucks whenever you came to visit him at the cottage from London. You would then prepare it with veggies from the garden just the way your mother had shown you.

You thought that, perhaps, Tommy was better equipped than you when it came to hunting. You struggled enough even just to slaughter a chook from the farm and your intake of meat was clearly lacking as a result.

Attacked

With Tommy gone, you decided to attend to the horses. Grabbing your shovel and rake, you walked into the stables.

But, just as you walked inside, you could hear a loud noise from behind the barn.

You wondered whether it was Tommy and approached the back area of the property carefully. After all, he had a loaded gun and you certainly didn’t want to get shot accidently.

Just as you walked to the side of the property, you saw a strange man.

‘Hello Love’ the man said, cocking his gun.

‘Who are you and what do you want?’ you asked holding on to your rake tightly.

‘We’ve got a dispute to settle with some Jews Love. Now be a good girl and put down this rake would you’ the man said firmly.

You obliged and the man approached you slowly.

‘Now Love, we will be having a good time and then we will visit your father’ the man said just before he called for another man who was at the back of the barn.

Within an instant, the man grabbed your wrists and pushed you against the outer wall of the barn.

‘Such are pretty thing aren’t you’ the man said as he aimed to cover your mouth while moving away your skirt.

But, just when the man’s hand reached your mouth, you bit him firmly just before yelling for help.

‘You fucking bitch’ the man said as he reached for his gun.

In this moment, you heard a shot. The other man was hit, but barely and went to check out where the shot came from.

With both men distracted, you ceased the moment and pulled out the gardening scissors you were carrying in your thin jacket. Within an instant and without thinking, you rammed the scissor into the neck of the man who was still standing right there in front of you.

This was all it took for the man to fall to the ground. You couldn’t help it but scream as your hands and blouse were covered in the man’s blood.

You were besides yourself, sitting on the ground next to his dying body in shock, unable to do anything.

After what felt like an eternity, you saw Tommy approach you, making his way through the veggie patch carrying your hunting rifle and covered in blood himself.

‘Are you alright Y/N?’ he asked as he kneeled down next to you, comforting you.

‘There is another man Tommy, he walked to towards the berry field’ you said.

‘I know. He’s dead now and so is the third man who was driving them here’ Tommy said.

‘Did you kill them?’ you asked.

‘Yes, I did’ he said and, just in that moment, you threw his arms around him.

This is when you realised that he had been injured and was in agony himself.

‘Tommy, you’ve been shot’ you said with worry as you saw blood staining through his white shirt.

‘Yes’ was all he managed to say at this point as he was losing blood.

‘We will get you to a hospital’ you said in a haste.

‘No hospital Y/N. I will be taken into custody if I set foot in a public place like this until the arrest warrant has been dropped’ Tommy said.

You could see the agony on his face as he held onto the side of his chest. He was in pain. A lot of pain.

‘You are nurse, aren’t you?’ Tommy asked, breathing heavily.

‘I am a student nurse Tommy. I have not practiced on a life person’ you said worryingly.

‘Well, it’s about time then eh’ Tommy chuckled.

‘Tommy, you can’t be serious’ you said.

‘I am serious Y/N. I need you to do this, please’ Tommy said.

‘Alright, common’ you said nervously. It wasn’t like you had a choice. Tommy was bleeding a lot and his wound needed attention immediately.

With haste, you walked inside with Tommy and placed a towel over the lounge and got your first aid kit as well as a bottle of vodka from the dining room. You then went to the bathroom quickly to get a bowl of clean water and more towels.

While you were getting everything ready, Tommy made a phone call to his brother Arthur, giving him your address. By that point, Tommy was barely able to stand up.

As you returned from the kitchen, you helped Tommy to remove his blood-soaked clothes.

You gasped for a moment. You weren’t sure whether the blood or the sight of his naked body took away your breath.

‘You’ve got whiskey?’ Tommy asked.

‘Tommy, I don’t think it matters which alcohol I use to clean out your wound’ you said as you got everything ready on the table.

‘To drink. Trust me, I’ll need it. I am out of Opium’ he said, his breathing still laboured.

‘Yes, of course’ you said before you poured him a large glass of whiskey and handed it to him.

He drank all of it in an instant before lying down.

‘This is going to hurt’ you said as you cleaned your hands and the tweezers from your first aid kit with some of the vodka.

‘I know’ he said, taking in a deep breath.

‘You have to stay still’ you went on as you reached for his wound which was still profusely pouring blood.

‘I know’ he said again before closing his eyes and holding on to the edge of the lounge in anticipation.

As soon as you entered the wounds with your fingers and the tweezers, all that you could hear was a loud grunt.

‘Fuck’ Tommy screamed as your fingers went in deeper, retrieving the bullet from his wound. By this point, you were breathing as heavily as him.

‘I’ve got it Tommy, don’t move now’ you said as you carefully pulled the bullet out of his flesh.

Tommy took in a deep breath and, with another loud grunt, you dislodged the bullet.

It was intact and you sighed with relief while Tommy opened his eyes, looking at you in agony.

‘Now I will clean up the wound and stitch it, alright?’ you asked, causing Tommy to nod.

He let out another loud grunt as you poured some of the vodka over his wound before handing him a clean towel to apply pressure to the wound while you prepared the stitches.

His face was expressionless when you placed the stitches. You knew that the worst pain was over but, nonetheless, you were surprised by how well he had handled it.

This was when you noticed several large scars across his chest and arms. Almost too many to count.

‘You have been shot before, haven’t you?’ you asked while Tommy looked almost relaxed when you placed the sixth stitch.

‘Just a few times’ he smirked.

While you placed the last stitch, you could hear a car pull up in front of your door.

You opened the door quickly before applying a bandage around Tommy’s chest.

‘Fucking Hell Brother’ Arthur shouted as he walked into the living room with Isiah.

‘Arthur, this is Y/N’ Tommy said by way of introduction.

You quickly shook Arthur’s hand by which he was rather surprised.

‘Who the fuck did this?’ Arthur asked.

‘The Billy Boys. But they weren’t after me. They were after her’ Tommy explained.

‘Why?’ Arthur asked.

‘Because she is the daughter of the judge hearing the McCaven matter. I assume they wanted to send a message’ Tommy said.

‘Did they see you?’ Arthur asked.

‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter. They are dead’ Tommy responded.

‘Alright, what do you want us to do with the bodies? Send a message?’ Arthur asked.

‘Burry them behind the property. This never happened. They just disappeared and never made it here. By the time McCaven finds out the arrest warrants will be dropped and I can deal with the situation and Mosley’ Tommy instructed.

Arthur and Isiah attended the bodies as instructed by Tommy. You were surprised how quickly and efficiently they made the bodies disappear without any evidence whatsoever. It was clear to you that they had done this kind of thing before.

Before they left, Tommy gave Arthur a note to give to Jesse Eden and a note to give to a person named Kent.

In return Arthur gave Tommy three guns, a change of clothes and a bottle of opium.

After Arthur and Isiah had left, you made sure that Tommy was resting. After all, he had lost a lot of blood and you didn’t want him to pull a stitch.

Tender Moments

‘Do you have any more of that tea?’ Tommy asked as he held on to the bottle of opium that Arthur had given him. He starred at it, but didn’t open it.

‘Yes, sure. I will make some’ you said.

You were surprised by Tommy’s request but didn’t dare to argue.

You sat down next to him to have some tea while he placed the bottle of opium on the table in front of him.

‘Tommy, don’t’ you said.

‘Don’t what?’ he asked.

‘The opium, don’t take it’ you said.

‘Well, then put it away somewhere I cannot find it eh’ Tommy said as he handed you the bottle and you obliged with his request.

Tommy knew he would be regretting this soon, at night when his nightmares would wake him once again. It wasn’t the pain he couldn’t handle, but rather it was Grace’s visits in his dreams and dreaming about France hat destroyed him.

He was afraid of going to sleep but he needed sleep badly especially after today and so did you.

‘Are you not going to sleep?’ Tommy asked as clock struck midnight and you were still there with him talking about matters which he never talked to anyone about. He felt like he could confine in you and, despite your young age, you understood and you cared.

‘I don’t think I can. Not after what happened today. Not after what I have done’ you said as tears were building up in your eyes for the third time that evening.

‘Y/N, listen to me, alright?’ he said, caressing your face gently.

‘What you have done saved your life. These men were here to hurt you and now they can’t. You are safe now’ Tommy said as tears began to run down your cheek.

‘I killed someone Tommy’ you said in disarray.

‘You killed a bad man’ Tommy said as he used his thumbs to wipe away your tears.

‘It’s still a man Tommy’ you said before pressing your head against his chest. ‘Will the picture of him ever leave my head?’ you asked.

‘No Y/N, it won’t. But your guilt will, that I promise’ Tommy said. ‘Now, let’s get you some rest, eh?’ Tommy said.

‘Will you come with me Tommy?’ you asked nervously, knowing that your question was somewhat unusual.

‘Come with you? To bed?’ Tommy asked with surprise.

‘Yes, just to sleep by my side. I am scared Tommy’ you said.

‘I never had a woman ask me to join her in her bed simply for the purpose of sleeping, but alright, I suppose I can do that’ Tommy smirked before he followed you upstairs.

As Tommy lied down next you, bandaged up and wearing not much more than his white undergarments, you could feel something unusual. It was almost like some sort of warmth which was flowing through your chest.

‘Do you want me to turn off the light?’ Tommy asked as he got comfortable on the large white pillow, facing you and starring into your dark eyes.

‘Not yet. Perhaps we could talk for a little longer’ you said as you looked into his comforting blue eyes.

‘Alright, what you want to talk about?’ he asked and this is when you brought up his current wife Lizzie and his children.

‘What about your wife and children, where are they?’ you asked.

‘They are in Scotland, where, apparently they are safe from all this and from myself’ Tommy said with some disappointment.

‘From yourself? But they are your children’ you asked with some confusion.

‘They are, but they are indeed safer without me until I sort things out’ Tommy explained.

‘Do you miss your wife’ you asked.

‘No, I do not miss my wife. She filed for divorce six weeks ago’ Tommy said.

‘You do not seem upset about it. Why is that?’ you asked.

‘Because I know that it’s the right thing to do, to keep her safe. Our relationship was never one made of love. I never loved her the way a husband should love his wife. But, she is mother of my daughter and she cares deeply for my son. I trust her. She’s always been loyal to me and to the Company’ Tommy explained.

‘That’s nice…to have someone like this in your life’ you said.

‘It is indeed. Now you should get some rest eh’ Tommy said as he turned off the bedside lamp.

To his surprise, as soon as he turned off the light, you leaned over towards him carefully and rested your head on the uninjured side of his chest.

He let you and wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close until you drifted off to sleep.

This was the first time for Thomas Shelby since he came back from France that he shared a bed with a woman other than his wife who didn’t have any sexual interactions with. To his surprise, despite the pain after having been shot, he slept better than he had expected. In the absence of nightmares, he was well rested until, after five hours of sleep, the next morning you heard a loud bang on the door.

Taking a Turn

You walked downstairs again with your loaded gun in your hand.

‘Who is it?’ you asked as you approached the door carefully.

‘Jesse Eden’ the person said and you quickly opened the door while Tommy came walking downstairs, out of your bedroom.

‘I actually just came here to make sure you didn’t kill each other but it looks like you’ve managed to become acquainted’ Jesse giggled.

‘It’s not what it looks like’ you said as Tommy walked out of your bedroom wearing nothing but his undergarments.

‘I assume Tommy has informed you about our past relations. But, for the record, I no longer have any interest in the man, so it’s quite alright with me if it is what looks like Y/N’ Jesse laughed.

‘You are no longer interested, eh?’ Tommy said to Jesse with a cheeky smile.

‘Unless you have forgotten, you ended up marrying someone else’ Jesse said.

‘Should I give you two some privacy?’ you asked as you felt uncomfortable being caught in between their conversation about old times.

‘No Y/N, there is no need eh Jesse?’ Tommy said with a laugh.

‘No there is not. Arthur came to see me last night to give me your note. But he hadn’t said anything about you having been injured’ Jesse said.

‘It’s alright, she’s a nurse. I got lucky’ Tommy chuckled.

‘Well, I am glad because I have information from one of my informants that will be of interest to you now that you are still alive. The Crown prosecutor was removed from the case and so was the chief of police. Apparently, it was found out that they both involved themselves with illegal prostitutes at some of your brothels’ Jesse said.

‘Now that is interesting, isn’t it?’ Tommy smirked.

‘You obviously knew and blackmailed them. The man in charge of the matter is now your friend Lawrence Staghill who, I believe, is filing for a motion to dismiss for lack of evidence in front of the judge who still owes you a lot of money. So, it looks like that everything is going to plan for you once again Thomas Shelby OBE. You should be free to leave after the next three days. The case is to be heard after the weekend’ Jesse said.

‘You hear that? Three more days and I will be out of your hair Y/N’ Tommy said.

‘I can’t wait’ you said cheekily and with a hint of sarcasm.

Jesse stayed for a little while longer before heading back to Birmingham and you made sure that, for the entire day, Tommy rested.

It was hard for Tommy to rest. It was almost like he needed to do something at all times. He wasn’t a man who could ever just sit still and, say, read a book. His mind had to busy constantly and he loved to be challenged.

For you, the day went by quickly and looking after Tommy was almost like looking after a child who refuses to listen.

Gone Too Far

‘I see you made yourself a bed on the sofa again’ you said as you noticed Tommy putting the blanket and pillow on the sofa.

‘Whilst I enjoyed our pillow talk, I figured that last night was an exception. Unless you think you might have difficulty sleeping again’ Tommy smirked.

‘I think I just might’ you said with a smile as you finished brushing your hair.

‘Alright, I will take my pillow and blanket upstairs then eh’ Tommy said.

‘Alright, see you up there’ you smiled, causing Tommy to chuckle.

This was strange indeed, but he figured that, at least, the bed was more comfortable than the lounge.

‘So, what do you want to talk about tonight, eh?’ Tommy asked as you walked into the bedroom with a glass of water and two white pills.

‘I went to the chemist today. This should prevent infection’ you said you said as you handed him the glass and the tablets.

‘Thank you’ Tommy said as you lied down next to him.

He swallowed the tablets and waited for you to say something, start a conversation of some sort.

But you didn’t. You lied there quietly, your dark eyes gazing over his half naked body.

In this moment, he didn’t know what came over him but, just as he leaned to lie on his uninjured side, he ran his hands through your hair and his eyes met yours.

‘I haven’t met anyone quite like you’ Tommy said.

‘Why is that?’ you asked.

‘I am not sure. There is something about you that intrigues me. That doesn’t happen very often’ Tommy said and, just as he did, you leaned forward and your lips met his.

His lips were soft and still tasted like whiskey.

Reluctantly at first, he returned the kiss, gently but passionately.

It was a short kiss and your tongues never touched by the time you lips drifted apart.

Once your lips separated you starred at each other, questioning in your mind what had just happened between you.

With embarrassment, you pulled away and turned around quickly.

‘Goodnight Tommy’ you said after you turned around. You turned off the night light and pulled your blanket over you tightly.

‘Goodnight Y/N’ Tommy said with a slight chuckle, still facing into your direction.

Despite the fact that Tommy had been on your mind now for days, you were surprised by your own actions and wanted to pretend that the kiss between you just moments ago didn’t happen.

You knew about his past, the killings, the illegal businesses, everything. He was a man you knew you shouldn’t get involved with. He was also still married and, at least in the eye of the public, he was a fascist.

You tried very hard to ignore the fact that he was lying next to you, half naked. The fire was lightening the room slightly and you simply couldn’t close your eyes, starring to the other end of the room.

For ten minutes you tried to lie still, but couldn’t. You fidgeted and kept starring up and then to the side again.

‘Do you want me to help you go to sleep?’ Tommy asked as he noticed your restlessness, which instantly broke the silence between you.

‘Help me go to sleep?’ you asked with some confusion and without turning around to face him. You were still to embarrassed to look at him.

‘Yes’ Tommy said as, suddenly, you could feel his body moving closer towards yours but still separated by your individual blankets.

‘What do you mean by that Tommy?’ you asked with some ignorance and, just when you did, you could feel the back of your blanket lift slightly.

Within seconds, Tommy’s fingers trailed over your bare shoulders downwards over your small breasts which were covered by nothing but your silk nightgown.

Your nipple turned hard instantly at his touch and you let out a deep sigh.

‘Tommy, I have never been with anyone before’ you said, allowing his touch but worrying about what he was intending to do to you.

‘Don’t worry Love, I am not going to fuck you. At least not in the conventional way’ Tommy chuckled as his fingers circled over your hard nipples.

You had no idea what he could possibly mean by that. Did he not find you attractive? What was he going to do to you then if not that?

‘So, you don’t want me?’ you asked curiously while small moans escaped your lips as the tips of his fingers continued to run circles over your nipples.

‘I want you alright. But I am not keen on tearing my stitches’ Tommy said as his hands began to take hold of your breasts harder.

You moaned at his touch and felt a strange and unfamiliar sensation build up in between your legs.

It wasn’t long until you felt his fingers move downwards over your stomach until they finally began teasing the top of your mound through your panties.

‘Tommy, I don’t think I will be going to sleep with you touching me like this’ you said with heavy breath. You wondered how on earth this was actually going to help you go to sleep.

‘I hope not’ Tommy laughed quietly. ‘But once I am done with you, you will sleep very well, that I promise’ he whispered into your before biting your earlobe gently.

You took in a deep breath and moaned quietly. The feeling of his hot breath was intense.

‘So do you want me to continue?’ he whispered.

You couldn't say yes. But you also couldn't say no. Instead, all that escaped your lips was another soft moan.

‘I need to hear you say it Love. Tell me you want me to keep going’ he said.

You whimpered under his touch, your hips now rocking to meet his hand. But he held firm.

‘I...it feels really good’ was all you could manage to say.

‘And you want me to continue?’ he asked as his fingers moved a little lower, over your panties, expertly brushing over your clit.

‘Yes Tommy, please continue’ you moaned and, just like that, Tommy slit his hand beneath your panties, running his fingers directly over your wet slit, dipping only the top of them into you gently.

He then began to rub his wet finger tips over your clit, circling around your hard nub with light pressure.

‘Oh my god Tommy’ you moaned as you never felt anything just like that.

After a minute or two, Tommy gently slid one finger into you, looking out for any cues from you to ensure that he didn’t hurt you now that he knew that you were a virgin.

You were so tight, it was almost too much to start and he could feel the resistance of your hymen within you. But he kept going, carefully and gently thrusting his finger in and out of you at a slow pace.

You moaned softly and Tommy loved pulling a reaction out of you. It was almost like it was his goal to break your normally stoic composure.

Tommy wanted to know that you were enjoying what he was doing.

He began sliding his finger in and out of you all the way slowly at first, but not long after he started to build speed.

You enjoyed the alternating feeling between emptiness and fulness inside of you and were making the most delicious noises now. Your eyes were completely closed and you were moaning louder.

Suddenly Tommy slipped a second finger inside of you just to give you a little extra jolt and you reacted better than he could have expected.

It was slightly painful at first but the mild pain soon subsided and turned into pleasure.

‘Tommy, oh god...fuck’ you moaned as you began squirming just slightly and moaning a bit louder.

As his fingers kept thrusting in and out of you, your breathing became heavier and your legs began to quiver.

His thumb soon gave extra attention to your clit while he kept up with the movement of his middle and index finger.

Your moans kept getting more frequent now and you were certainly getting wetter too as Tommy kept going faster and harder.

You couldn’t believe how good he was making you feel with his fingers but you also didn’t know what to expect when an overwhelming sensation of warmth and tingling overcame you slowly.

‘Tommy, I don’t know if this is right. It feels strange’ you moaned as your legs began to shake and you couldn’t control your movements.

You tried to squirm away as the feeling was too unfamiliar to you. But Tommy persisted, pushing his hand firmer against you and his fingers even deeper inside of you.

‘Does it feel good?’ Tommy asked, knowing already what your answer would be as he could feel your walls tightening around his fingers.

‘Yes Tommy’ you managed to let out in between moans.

‘Then its right Love’ Tommy smirked. ‘Just relax and let go eh’ Tommy whispered.

You moaned once again, louder than before, and gave into the sensation.

It was intense, so intense that you had to clench onto the sheets and, just like this your orgasm washed over you.

You were a shaking mess and Tommy kept up the speed with his fingers until your orgasm slowly began to subside.

‘Fuck, what the hell just happened?’ you said once you began to calm down and while Tommy still stroked the outside of your now soaked mound.

‘Did you never have an orgasm before?’ Tommy asked surprised and with curiosity.

‘Like this? No. Never’ you said. Of course, you pleasured yourself before but the sensation was different, way less intense than what Tommy just managed to do to you.

As Tommy removed his hand from you, you turned around, your cheeks flushed. It was almost like you were embarrassed to look at him after what had just happened.

‘Feeling relaxed now?’ Tommy asked with a grin on his face.

‘Yes…uhm…thank you’ you said shyly.

‘It’s my pleasure’ Tommy said with a smile before giving you gentle kiss. You could have spent all night just kissing him. He was good at it and his lips were full and soft.

‘You should get some sleep now, eh’ he said after your lips drifted apart and he caressed your face.

‘Is there anything I could do to return the favour?’ you asked shyly, feeling somewhat guilty about the way he made you feel with nothing in return.

‘No, not tonight Love’ Tommy said as he pulled you closer. Whilst he had the desire to be with you that night, he was still not well enough after his injury and felt as though he should give you time. You were inexperienced and this was new territory for you, possibly overwhelming. Just like this, you had awoken the soft and gentle side of Thomas Shelby and that, in itself, brought him out of his own comfort zone.

He did not know what to do or how to act. The only woman who had managed to do this to him after he’s fought in France was his late wife Grace and he was certain that he would never meet another woman like this again. A woman he would care for in the same way he cared for Grace. Having met you changed everything for him that night and he struggled with the idea to accept his fade, especially with a woman half his age and who was the daughter of the man who tried very hard to bring him down.

Thus, as you leaned your head against his chest carefully, making sure that you didn’t lean against his wound, he couldn’t help but stare at you and ponder about what had brought him to you. Perhaps it was meant to be.

‘What’s wrong Tommy?’ you asked as you began to notice his eyes being fixated on you as he ran one of his hands through your hair gently.

‘Nothing, just enjoying the moment’ he said.

‘Me too Tommy’ you responded before closing your eyes and drifting off to sleep.

Change of Heart

The next morning, when you woke up, Tommy was not by your side. His side of the bed was empty.

But, when you walked downstairs you could see him, sitting in the dining room area with a pen and paper.

You weren’t sure what he was writing and you weren’t sure how to approach him after last night.

You decided to go with a kiss and, just after you said good morning and leaned in to kiss him, Tommy pulled away.

That was unexpected and you looked at him, full of questions.

‘Last night was a mistake Y/N for which I apologise. I should not have been temped’ Tommy said.

‘A mistake? Right’ you said as you walked over to the kitchen bench to boil the kettle. Small tears were running down your eyes and you tried hard to hide them from Tommy.

You had begun to care for him and you most clearly were developing feelings for him.

‘Y/N?’ Tommy said as he noticed you being upset.

‘Tommy, please just give me some space alright’ you said as you walked into the studio with your cup of tea.

You were embarrassed and you felt weak. Yet you wanted to be strong.

Were you too naïve, failing for a man like him?

509 notes · View notes

shyocean · 2 years ago

Text

Thought for the greater trans community.

People with uteruses are having a particularly rough summer.

Our access to life-saving emergency medical care. Our access to maintenance medicine. Our basic bodily autonomy. Right now, a trans man in Texas who is raped might be forced to give birth while having no access to legal protection afforded to women giving birth. It's frightening. We're angry. There a lot of trauma and emotion, right now.

Even if some of you don't care. Realpolitik. This is a big enough issue, that it has the chance to flip a lot of centrist red voters blue. If we, as a community, really got behind this, maybe we could push the government more towards the center, instead of listing more into christo fascism. Now, I am not a centrist, but unless you plan to overthrow the government in the next three months, blue is better. Practically, unity and coalition building would be a good thing.

So, thinking about the relatively unprecedented level of intracommunity discourse, abetted by Kiwi farms etc, it feels hard to believe it's chance. That alienating people with uteruses from the trans movement isn't getting pushed into place by someone else.

Because, for god's sake, is the community really telling people with uteruses to sit down and shut up and listen to people without uteruses, because we have the privilege of having a uterus right now, so we don't deserve a voice in the community about what we are called or even to discuss whether we belong here?

Is the community really telling trans-aligned people with uteruses that we aren't really trans, and that we are the cause of the christofascist authoritarianism that's oppressing us both ways?

Are we really publicly having all this anti-afab, anti-female discourse on main?

Is the community setting it up like a choice, either we can care about protecting Black transfemmes, or we can care about the voices and dignity and priorities of people with uteruses? Like we literally can't do both?

Surely we aren't doing this to ourselves, right?

Because it's incredibly alienating to me, a trans person dating a Black transfemme. It's led me to not want to have anything to do with anything trans 'community' besides loving my girlfriend and friends and living my life.

Can you imagine the impact on a scared, angry, less attached person who can't get their lupus meds, or a woman who almost died because her doctor wouldn't remove her dead wanted pregnancy, or the teenager who's been raped or any of the thousands of ongoing horror stories that are freshly occurring?

This is not respectability politics; you will never be enough for the people who hate you. This is about people who are actively trying to be on your side getting kicked in the teeth for it.

You don't even have to like or care about cis women or afab trans people. You can be fully a misogynist, and still, and if you are queer, understand that working together politically would help personally, because everyone 's liberation is intersectionally tied together.

And every actual amab trans person I have actually talked to is someone I like. It's just the badness echoing across social media. We act like it's coming from inside the house, but I don't think so. I don't.

I think we're better than this, on the whole, en masse, without anyone profiting off our in-fighting and fear. I am hoping so.

And that means we also don't go after binary trans people who have made a mistake or gotten notoriety, or support. I don't think Hunter deserves whatever she's getting for hitting a stupid like button. No one actually deserves the harassment. I don't think we need to be disappointed that Keffals was able to turn a threat to her life to her advantage because she's pretty and has a huge fan base. Can we just. Stop. Hurting. The person within reach?

I think it is being pushed on us and we have to resist, y'all.

Transphobia is not a tiger; it's a persistence predator.

#rape tw #transphobia cw #abortion cw #trans #trans rights #discourse tw #transandrophobia #non binary #enby

13 notes · View notes

canchewread · 2 years ago

Photo

Editor’s note: Bookish Bits is a regular literary writing column on Can’t You Read. Featuring both traditional book reviews, and expanded essays, this book blog encompasses all of my writing about the volumes in my extensive library.

Proud Of Our Boy: A Review of We Are Proud Boys: How a Right-Wing Street Gang Ushered In a New Era of American Extremism, by Andy Campbell, from Hatchett Books.

To be completely honest with you, I didn't even want to read this book. In my opinion a book about the Proud Boys, published at this moment in Pig Empire history, could go one of two ways; it could be a serious work of antifascist scholarship, or it could be a true crime story full of reactionary sensationalism and ultimately portraying a fascist street gang as antiheros. I'd ordered the book sight unseen, and when I saw it was titled "We Are Proud Boys" and the front cover featured a far-too coy little cartoon of right wing terrorists hoisting up a US flag ala the U.S. Marine corps atop Mount Suribachi during the Battle of Iwo Jima; I became concerned.

After actually reading We Are Proud Boys however, I'm happy to report that this appears to be a marketing fail by Hatchett Books; because Campbell's work here is actually a fine example of how to write about fascism in our modern Pig Empire. A journalistic work at heart, the pacing in We Are Proud Boys is crisp, Andy doesn't try to both sides the rise of organized reactionary political violence, and most importantly he correctly calls the Proud Boys fascist a lot; which longtime readers will know I consider extremely relevant here in the Pork Reich era.

On review, the book is divided into two sections. In the first half, Campbell offers up a detailed history of the gang; including its origins, its numerous acts of political violence, and the path by which the Proud Boys were able to become part of mainstream "conservative" politics. Exploring national figures like Gavin McInnes, or Enrique Tarrio, as well as regional leaders like Mike Nordean, the who, what, and how is all laid out perfectly in We Are Proud Boys; with a heavy focus on the fascist struggle to literally invade and overwhelm the nominally liberal government of Portland, as well as the Proud Boys rarely-reported involvement in the January 6th, 2021 fascist coup attempt on Capital Hill.

If, like many folks, your only exposure to the Proud Boys is very poor mainstream media reporting, the first half of the book is a vital read. Although this is definitely a history of the gang, it's not just a summary. Andy's book also does a great job of demonstrating the explicitly political nature of Proud Boy terrorism, and doesn't pull any punches about how easily these guys duped a complicit American media into spreading their propaganda. While this is all high quality work, the fact is most of the reporting in this first section is already available in the public sphere; including numerous Huffington Post articles published by Campbell himself on the subject.

It is however in the second half of We Are Proud Boys, where Campbell's analysis really shines. Taking everything we learned earlier, Andy meticulously exposes the direct connections between the Proud Boys, fascist political violence, and the mainstream American right; including Trump, the GOP, and much of the proto-fascist right wing media ecosphere. Reading the author's work, it's quickly apparent that the Proud Boys are not a violent entity operating outside the public political right, but rather a violent expression of, and a useful tool for, the fascist movement that has become the mainstream American right. The calls are coming from inside the house; funded by both conservative wealth and small dollar donations by the volk.

In a refreshing change of pace, Campbell also does a great job of covering antifascist protest honestly and accurately. We Are Proud Boys contains an entire chapter on "antifa" and the fascist right's attempts to conjure up a left wing terrorist organization to justify all this fascist repression, around the term. You can tell Andy has spent a lot of time on the ground in this fight however, because he immediately rejects this framing and portrays antifascists protestors as they are - totally normal people who don't want their communities and civil rights imploded by nazi street gangs. It says something about American journalism that this is worthy of applause, but Andy doesn't let his readers, or the truth, down here.

Perhaps as importantly, We Are Proud Boys goes beyond the realm of exposé to examine the real ways the Proud Boys have changed politics in America forever; and not for the better. The chapter where Campbell discusses the now-ubiquitous presence of an armed, openly fascist counter-protest at every democratic or progressive protest action in America was particularly insightful, and chilling to read. As our author notes, this isn't just about the Proud Boys themselves anymore either; the gang has created a blueprint for organized fascist political terrorism that can be, and is being, copied by other reactionaries as we speak. The modern American "shirt group" is here to stay; and working to overthrow liberal democratic society out in the open.

Frankly speaking, most of my complaints about We Are Proud Boys are stylistic. Campbell still writes like a journalist; he tends to lay out the facts, put them in context, and draw conclusions, pretty much in that order. Although his work isn't dry, I can't say he's mastered the art of narrative; with the caveat that this also means he's not distorting the facts to fit his own preferred story. I also think he lets noted fascist propagandist Roger Stone off a little light by portraying him as merely an influential ally linking the Proud Boys to the mainstream American right. In reality, Stone is clearly helping to politically steer numerous "grass roots" fascist movements online and in the streets.

In the final analysis, We Are Proud Boys is an excellent book. Timely, insightful, and explicitly antifascist, there honestly might not be a better examination of organized fascist political violence on the mainstream market. This unquestionably makes it the best mass-market book about the Proud Boys, if not the best mass-market book about fascism in the Trump era as a whole. I'd happily recommend Andy's book to my friends and family; people who can actually seek reprisal for a bad recommendation. Campbell may write like a liberal crime and justice reporter, but he's no fool for reactionary power; I'm delighted to give "We Are Proud Boys" four and a half stars.

nina illingworth

Anarcho-syndicalist writer, critic and analyst.

You can find my work at ninaillingworth.com, Can’t You Read, Media Madness and my Patreon Blog

Updates available on Twitter, Instagram, Mastodon and Facebook.

Podcast at “Kropotkin’s Barbershop” on Soundcloud.

Inquiries and requests to speak to the manager @ASNinaWrites

Chat with fellow readers online at Anarcho Nina Writes on Discord!

“It’s ok Willie; swing heil, swing heil…”

#Bookish Bits #Fascism #Antifascism #us politics #Andy Campbell #We Are Proud Boys #Book Review #Review #Theory #Nina Illingworth #Book Blog #Gavin McInnes #Trumpism #Pork Reich #Amerikan Musik

3 notes · View notes

headoverhiddles · 5 years ago

Text

Wrapped In Plastic - Marilyn Manson x Reader [Smut]

Synopsis: The new kid at school intrigues you. He’s infatuated too, but beneath that scary exterior, you’ve got no idea what’s in store.

Notes: Era: Spooky Kids! Requested by anon: “High school Brian having a crush on you.”

There he is, sitting in front of the principal again. Brian Warner. You're surprised he hasn't been expelled yet, frankly, even though he just moved here to South Florida recently.

You watch from afar, sitting with your friends. He's making that face. That expression... or lack of expression. He doesn't give a fuck what he got in trouble for, and you, he and the principal know it.

"Hey. (y/n)," your best friend says, "What the hell? Are you listening?"

"Yeah," you mutter, glancing back into the office. God, he would probably fuck like an animal, taking you in some old haunted forest somewhere while spanking you and telling you you're his dirty little slut...

Your friend scoffs when she sees where you're looking.

"That guy is dangerous, quit fantasizing. That isn’t your picture perfect bad boy-- that’s like dating the next Son of Sam killer.”

Your other friend chimes in. “My sister told me she saw him and his pack of weirdos out lighting an abandoned house on fire. My sister’s friend said she hears him jerking off in the washroom every lunch hour. The whole school knows about it. Also apparently in creative writing, he turned in this story about this guy fucking his sister's corpse or something. Seriously weird, probably evil. He's gonna end up in jail, mark my words." You ignore your friend, but turn back into the conversation.

Eventually, the principal gives up, dismissing him. You see Brian join his friends outside the office door, who have been waiting-- Jeordie and Stephen, you think you've heard them called in class. The one with the brown comb-over is called Pogo outside of class, because of his fascination with serial killers. You think it's funny. Those guys just do whatever they want.

Your breath hitches. Brian tucks his long black hair behind his ear, looking up and grinning at his friends. He's describing what he did, and he looks like a gleeful child who just got away with murder as the other two bust out laughing and dig for details. How could anyone think he's evil?

Cold chills run through your body as he meets your eyes. Oh, fuck. He smirks a little bit your way, but you quickly look away. His features harden, and he turns back to his friends. You turn back to yours.

You can't help watching after him as he walks down the hall to fourth period, though... his head nearly reaches the ceiling, and that metal Planet Of The Apes lunchbox makes you smile. You've heard him make a threat or two to beat someone's ass with it, and you believe he'd do it. For every bully who promised him he'd be nothing, there's something about him that promised so much more.

The bell goes, and Brian sits down at the desk.

"She was looking at you."

"Yeah, she was talking to her friends about me," Brian mutters back.

"She looked like she was wetting her panties over you," Jeordie grins, "She looks like she wanted to suck your dick right there in front of Mr. Ogilvie!"

"That'd be the day," Brian sighs.

"Yeah, you'd have beat off material forever," Pogo laughs.

"But she wasn't," he said, "You guys are just fucking blind."

"I don't know, I got some blow job vibes from her,” Pogo says.

“You get blow job vibes from everyone.”

“I’ll blow you for lunch money,” Jeordie mentions. Pogo shrugs.

“I might take you up on that.” His obnoxious laughter rings out as you walk by the door. You recognize it immediately, and look back. Brian’s sitting there, knees tucked under the desk like his legs won’t fit. Shit. In your experience, being this preoccupied with someone meant you were into them... or at least, wanted to see more of them.

Brian looks up again, and sees you staring at him. This time, he frowns. You’re drawn away by your friend, who pulls you toward your next class. As you're walking, someone calls your name.

“Hey! (y/n), right?”

You turn as your friend keeps walking ahead. You scoff slightly as he approaches. “Like you don’t know my name.” You pause, backtrack. “I- sorry. That was mean."

“That’s okay. I’ve been known to be a little mean too,” he smirks, and he flips his hair out if his face. “I guess when you hang around a bunch of catty bitches all the time, it rubs off on you.” His voice is so deep and calm. It throws you off whenever he speaks, but does other things to you as well.

"Hanging out with a pair of delinquents can do the same." Your eyes dart inside the classroom to his friends, who are carving something into a desk. He gives a small smile.

"Touché."

“Speaking of rubbing off,” you raise an eyebrow, “Did you want to talk to me?”

He blushes, then forces his embarrassment away. “That rumor’s not true.”

“No?”

“Nah. I did light that abandoned house on fire though.” He grins, and you do as well, hugging your books closer to your chest.

“So. You’re a rebel, huh?”

“If not putting up with everybody’s bullshit counts as rebelling, then yeah. I guess so.”

“I can respect that,” you nod. “I feel the same way... but I’m not as fearless as you.”

“Are you saying you might commit arson with me, (y/n)?”

“Maybe. How did the conversation progress to lighting things on fire with you?”

He laughs, ducks his head nervously. “Well. Um, I saw you staring like a creep, and... I was wondering if you wanted to be creeps together. Y’know... hang out sometime? Come see my band, or...?”

“Are you asking me out?”

“Yeah, I am.”

You smile, poking his black shirt that read Christianity is Unnatural, Abnormal, and Perverse. “You’ve got balls, Brian.” You look at the clock, and back to his class. “What do you say we fuck off for the rest of the day?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You wanna skip class today?”

“Sorry,” you walk your fingers up his chest. “I know I’m not quite at your level of rebellion yet, but it’s a start.”

He laughs as he follows you to your locker.

---

“So. Do you have a car?”

“No.” He scratches his head. “We can walk back to my house, though. My parents aren’t home.”

Following that plan, you make it back to his house. For someone hailed as the Antichrist of the school, he's got a relatively normal looking home, white picket fence and everything. All that changes once you get to his room.

"Wow," you say, looking up at everything. He's got serial killer-like writing scrawled on the wall by his bed, lyrics that seem like they're straight out of a porno or a horror film, or both. There are pentagrams drawn on his bed posts, and posters of bands like Nine Inch Nails, Ozzy Osbourne, KISS on his walls.

"I know it's stupid, but I'd give anything to meet those guys," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

"It's not stupid," you say, examining the edges of the posters, freyed from the move no doubt. "I actually think it's awesome. I love Ozzy."

"One day I'm gonna beat his record for most drugs consumed over a lifetime."

"Have you started practicing?" you tease.

"I... well, I haven't had the chance."

"Right. Let me know when you do." You smile, going over to sit on his bed. He looks down at you, seems to have a mini panic attack, then acts cool with it, playing with his lip ring and sitting beside you. You look around the messy floor. He's got a strange mix of stuff that oddly seems to perfectly fit his personality: leaking boxes of black hair dye, various lipsticks and nail polishes, a bag of weed, books on the rise of fascism and Carl Jung's red book, an antique-looking switchblade, a Willy Wonka hat, condoms with little angry faces drawn on them, an old deflated football with "FIGHT" written on it, and... "What's that?" you ask, leaning down. Brian coughs.

"Oh. Yearbook from last year."

You pick it up, looking at all the little drawings of candy, needles, Charles Manson and other doodles he's defaced the book with. "But you didn't go to this school last year."

"I traded my mom's diet pills for it."

"Huh. Hustling already. Must have been some good stuff." You hesitate. The page was open to the photos of you as the lead in the play last year. You smirk, pretending to squint. "Is that a cum stain I see on my face?"

"You wish," he huffs, but he's blushing, hair curtaining around his face. You give him a look, turning fully toward him.

"Why'd you really invite me over?"

"To tell you I hate you, knock you out, and bury you in my backyard." You laugh.

"I mean, if you think about it..."

"It's the perfect plan. Invite the girl you've got a crush on over, assume she's gonna make fun of you, lure her in, then get your revenge." You smile, laying back on his bed.

"You just admitted to having a crush on me."

"Wasn't it obvious?" he asks. "I only ever threaten to kill the people I really wanna fuck."

"And do you really wanna fuck me, Bri?" you ask coyly, crawling dangerously close to him. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his long, graceful throat. "You wanna fuck me right here, right now, while your parents aren't home, make me scream your name while you blare your favorite metal record and act like things'll never change?"

"That sounds good," he groans. His hands wander up your thigh, and you smile, bouncing on his leg. "...I also wanna share my music with you. Read a book over your shoulder. Maybe pop a few pills, key someone's car, grab a milkshake and look at the stars on Special K so we feel like we're floating, you know. Before I bang the shit out of you. Date stuff."

"Is this not our first date?" you ask. His tongue flicks up over his lip ring again.

"I guess you could say it is."

"Good. Cause I never fuck on a first date," you say, "Or so I tell people." He clenches his jaw, and braces a skinny arm beside your head, leaning down to capture your lips. His lips taste sweet, like mint and those sugary rocket candies. He takes his shirt off, and you rub your hands down, feeling a few scars. He lets out a whimpered noise at your touch, shuddering a little.

You make out and grind against one another for a few minutes, your hands pulling his hips closer by his black belt loops and his fingers tangling your hair. Your breath gets faster as he grinds harder, more desperately, and you reach a hand down to help him out, give him something to rut against.

"You feel so big," you moan, and he runs a hand through his hair, lips falling open.

"I'm gonna..." He makes another desperate noise, and you feel it right where you need him. But since all his condoms in here seem to be used or have faces drawn on them in scented marker, you opt for over the clothes stuff only.

"Use your fingers?" you breathe. He looks like he's about to cum, and you know it'll tip you over as well, what with all the times you had thought of him like this.

He reaches into your jeans, unzipping them, and messily finds your clit. For a teenage guy, he's not bad. He starts to rub, then reaches three fingers down to thrust them into you.

"Fuck, Bri! Three?!" you breathe. He looks into your eyes, not stopping.

"I thought girls were whores for that kind of thing!"

"It's..." you moan, "That's... oh... y-yeah... Jesus...” He really start to work them in, watching your reactions while rutting his clothed erection against your leg. "Fuck, Brian, grab my tits... yeah... this is just how I imagined it when I..."

He freezes for a second, and his whole body convulses. He gasps, and you see him reach down to cover his crotch, face going beet red. He doesn't stop, though. He keeps fingering you, and now that he's not worried about grinding, he can explore you in other ways. He attaches his lips to your neck, and sucks a hickie right below your ear.

“Brian... Bri, make me c--”

"Cum for me, you filthy little slut," he snarls, and you arch your back up, grinding down into his fingers as your orgasm hits. You rock through it, and he kisses you again, sloppy and hot. When he pulls away, he gives you your fingers to lick clean, which you do through a heated stare.

Things calm down into you laying back against his pillows with his stringy body tucked in a cramped position beside you. "I didn't know you were that..." you search for words. "Experienced?"

"What, you thought I was a virgin?”

You giggle. “I didn’t know what to think about you, to be honest. Kinky, inexperienced, I had no idea. Of course, I hoped that you were kinky.”

“I’ve been known to use restraints when asked,” he smirks.

“I’ve got that to look forward to. I thought you were cute too, though. I don’t care if you’re some devil worshipper who parents and teachers everywhere shiver at the thought of." He's quiet for a second.

"I thought you were scared of me."

"That too, a little bit. But what scares me turns me on." He rolls over to face you, a vulnerable position for him, you can tell.

"The way I dress is what I perceive to be beautiful. Looking like this, doing what I want to, it keeps the assholes who like to give my face their own version of plastic surgery away if they think I'm a Satanist who's gonna... cut off their mom's head or something if they fuck with me. Makes the hypocrites who call themselves teachers question their morals too, ‘teaching’ someone like me to be a good little boy and follow society’s rules. It’s all brainwashing, everything they feed us with their sugar and shit, and I’m the bad guy for standing up to it."

You stroke hair out of his face, and he looks up at you, lips pursed. "There’s always gotta be a scapegoat. I guess you fit that role.” You look beyond him. “You think it would ruin your image if those bullies found your poetry books?” He smiles.

“Nah. One day, I’m gonna grow up to be a big rock and roll star. I’ll use my own poetry and turn it into music, and I’ll look ten times more extreme than I do now. Then they can all say they knew me, and I’ll tell them to go to hell.”

You snuggle into him. "Mmm. Speaking of extreme... we should pull a Sandy and Danny. I'll come to school dressed all goth and shit Monday. Throw my friends for a loop."

"Does that mean I have to dress like a cheerleader?" he asks.

"You've got the ass for it."

He grins. "Stop it, you're making it very hard for me not to wanna fuck you for real right now."

"Here's the deal," you say, "I'll show you where I live this weekend. You tell me what your favorite fruit is, because that's a soul searching question. At that point we'll know each other better... and I'll be fair game."

He bites his lip. "I feel like I've known you forever."

"Yeah. Me too."

Just then, there's a knock at the bedroom door. Startled, you sit up quickly, and who you can only assume to be Brian's mom pops her head in. "When the fuck did you two get home?!" Brian blurts.

"About five minutes ago, honey. Don't worry, we didn't hear anything. Jeordie called, said he 'left the smoke bomb under the urinals.' I hope you aren't getting up to trouble like the last school, your father had a heck of a time getting you into this one.”

“Mom.”

“He had to switch jobs too, and with his back, you know how difficult long drives can be. Oh, how rude of me-- hello sweetie, you can call me Barb."

"Mom--"

"Brian, is this the sweet thing you had that dream about the other night?"

"MOM!"

“Hugh, Brian’s got a girlfriend over, we should turn the TV up to give them a little privacy.”

“GIRLFRIEND?!” a voice calls up, “GOOD ON YA, SON. THAT’S MY BOY!”

“Jesus fucking Christ...” Brian groans, burying his face in a pillow. You laugh so hard into his chest you nearly tumble off his bed. Most dangerous guy in school, your ass.

487 notes · View notes

diariesofaplutonian · 5 years ago

Text

Pluto: Where is your power lost? Where can it be won back?

Let’s talk about Pluto! Pluto, to me, represents everything it has been mythologically and culturally assigned to—the underworld, the shadow side, the darkest parts of ourselves, the selves we wish to hide or keep contained from others, death, taboo, mystery, power struggles, and so on, but above all else, to me, where the planet falls in a house demonstrates the arena in which we feel the most powerless. The house where Pluto falls in shows us the themes we will grapple with and indicates the obstacles and struggles that may arise. Gratefully, Pluto also represents in the chart the area where we can most empower ourselves and elevate our lives and our dignity if we find a way to turn what disempowers us into our strength and make it part of our story, our story of victory, instead of a lesson of our defeat, our story of failure. Pluto shows us where we can triumph if we find a way to revolutionize or otherwise radically transform/change ourselves internally, despite our external challenges. Most importantly, Pluto is about recovering our power. For example, if Pluto falls in the 4th house/IC, it may indicate that a person feels most powerless or defeated in situations involving family. One may be estranged from one’s family or have a difficult relationship with one’s mother or stepfather, for instance, but due to financial, emotional, or other reasons, such person is unable to liberate himself from his family and be free of a toxic home life. He thus feels resentful not only by the fact that his environment limits him, but by the fact that he cannot escape or change his environment. His transformation may come through the act of juggling multiple endeavors to support himself until he is physically and emotionally able to remove himself from his unfit guardians and cultivate his own family through his individual selection of trusted people he names “adopted family.”

Someone with Pluto in the 8th house may feel powerless over death. Such person may undergo countless tragedy in the form of losing people close to him. He may lose his mother, aunt, younger brother, cousin, close friend, mentor, etc. through the course of his life, and so on. He may feel like he has no control over the lives of people he meets, and be plagued by the thought of forming attachments with other people, due to the fear that they, too, will die if he develops a closeness with them. His fear of death (not even necessarily his own) may evolve into a fear of connection and intimacy, another 8th house theme. He can overcome this fear or feeling of powerlessness through re-examining his basic safety, comfort, and survival needs, so when he reevaluates or reassesses his proximity to death, he sees not the history of all those who have passed before him, but the potential to live as though he is dying, not wasting a single minute, relating to himself and others with a newfound depth and urgency. He can form fierce, meaningful, powerful connections that allow him to interact and engage with people without being held back by the immediacy of crisis or the threat of future death. His knowledge that the future is uncertain can give him resistance to the notion of being extinguished, causing him to live relentlessly and with vulnerability, in search for deeper truth. Death may ignite a fury or appreciation for living within him. He may, as the familiar poem goes, “not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Knowledge of the impermanence of life makes him full of the desire to build something stable, solid, and long-term, seemingly permanent connections. He finds longevity in essence and via the impact he leaves on others and the impact they in turn impress on him. This gives him life and intense pleasure. Life becomes about energy, constancy in spite of inconstancy, and active transformation (self-transformation). He cultivates resilience and strength/temerity of character through this commitment to continuity of self-change.

Someone with Pluto in the 9th house may feel disempowered in light of others’ ideology/belief systems or in the field of higher faith or science or education. These people are some of the most likely to be successful high school or college dropouts. They have their own unique mission in life, and discovering it is their source of power. This person may also feel constantly tested or undermined by religious notions or organizations and possibly even the notion of God or higher power. This person may, alternatively, derive immense inner strength and fortitude by believing in God or higher power or the Spirit. This person may also form his own introspective, unique thoughts about life and produce philosophies or inquiries about the nature of existence. He could derive great fame or fortune or success or influence from disseminating his views, albeit controversial, whether positive or negative. In fact, he is sure to be polarizing. Nonetheless, his ideas will generate significant outreach due to the distinctiveness of his voice or message. His spirituality may be called into question, abandoned, or adopted. This person may struggle at school/in formal education, not necessarily academically or intellectually, but in terms of curriculum. This student may not agree with what he is being taught or feel like he cannot learn via compulsory schooling. The native may thrive in more organic settings where, opposed to sitting in a lecture or taking notes off a PowerPoint, for instance, he may be asked to design a project implementing his ideas or approach to something or invent a novel way to problem-solve an application. This, to him, may be a better use of his time, energy, and creativity. He may also flourish in home-schooling or alternative schooling, trade schools, or special schools. This person may feel restricted in environments where he is subject to other people’s beliefs or so-called knowledge, such as when someone insists fascism is the right way to live, for instance, and he argues socialism is the right way. He has to learn to contend with other people’s viewpoints, however challenging to hear he believes them to be, without feeling the urge to change or compel them, despite whether he believes himself to be right and they wrong. Other people don’t have to believe what he believes and he shouldn’t feel obligated or righteous enough to attempt to sway or influence them. He will find his personal power when he is able to separate the actions and beliefs and opinions of others without feeling the need to compete with, attack, or obliterate them. There isn’t always a “winner.” Not everything needs to be contested or debated, and sometimes, it really is best to say nothing at all.

Pluto in the 3rd house may feel intimidated, pressured, limited, or controlled in situations involving siblings, local spaces or regional transportation, or informal school as opposed to higher education. For instance, one may be significantly older than her sister and may be forced to help her parents raise her due to her family being large and having significant age gaps between children, or, her sister may have been made an orphan after their parents died in a tragic car accident, and the native thus may have been forced to intervene and take custody of her sibling to avoid the younger girl ending up in the foster system. She may resent having to take care of someone else as an adult when she is not even fully able to provide for herself and her own needs, or she may have difficulty relating to her younger sibling because of their large age gap, and may thus find herself in the mother role instead of the big-sister role. She can see this as an unfair constraint upon her own resources, time, and happiness. Or, in a different scenario, the Pluto in the 3rd house person may have parents who divorced when she was a child and one of her parents, say her father, remarried and her stepmother brought in 3 children of her own. This person may feel abandoned by her own father, especially if her mother remained her primary caregiver and her father acted as a birth parent to his stepchildren, treating her as an adopted or stepchild. She may resent her step-siblings for being closer to her father and in her eyes, ‘stealing’ her dad away from her. Tension between her siblings and herself could cause her to feel troubled or indignant and unable to change this deeply unsettling feeling of being replaced that dwells inside her and eats her up from the inside. Rather than letting this jealousy or envy consume her and ravage her insides, she can overcome this tribulation by fostering an intense self-love within herself and finding stimulating mental activities and hobbies (as Mercury traditionally rules the 3rd house) that make her feel powerful.

For example, let’s say she begins to read and write exceptionally well, eventually crafting a memoir about her experiences, and it turns into a bestseller. Or, perhaps, though, this is petty, she joins the chess or debate team at her school along with her siblings and constantly crushes them at debates or chess. She will have thus found a way to transcend those setbacks that made her feel defeated and less important, by becoming the best in a field or championing her story or becoming victorious in publishing or some type of Mercury-related field. She will have attained some sort of dominance or recognition and will no longer see herself as second-best in terms of her parents’ eyes/her father’s treatment of her. And who wouldn’t like to be the most successful sibling? The one who introduced the world to the family name? Sibling rivalry/competition can be healthy.

Pluto often brings the potential for struggle and demise and defeat, but it also rules comebacks and success stories and champions the role of the underdog. There is no ‘failure’ or setback that cannot be overcome with Pluto, so long as one constantly and consistently transforms and generates a second skin, so to speak. Pluto is a test, and you can’t ace every test, but you can’t flunk them all either.

638 notes · View notes

shinelikethunder · 4 years ago

Note

"#'what circumstances exactly' you ask? congrats! now you're asking the right questions#feel free to join the rest of us in arguing endlessly over the answers at essay length because this shit's complicated" i'd love your thoughts!

(re: the tags on this post about suspension of moral disbelief)

I mean, there are plenty of finer details lurking in that “exactly” that I won’t even pretend to have well-formed answers for. But applying the concept of ‘suspension of disbelief’ to morality is just... a thing people do with stories. All the time! The decision to play along with it can be well-judged or ill-judged, just like most other human exchanges of ideas, and the demands a story makes of its audience can be beneficial or pernicious or just plain expedient. All you really need for it to be in play is:

some kind of moral skepticism to suspend (re: consequences, risk, what really matters here, the innate horrificness of a transgression, whatever)

some sufficient incentive to suspend it (catharsis, Feeeeels, wish fulfilment, digging into the appeal of something that’d be a terrible idea IRL, neat thought experiments, compelling trainwrecks, having more important things to Story about...)

some level of confidence that this is a temporary setting-aside of scruples for the duration of your stay in Fictionland, not actual persuasion about something you’ll potentially take with you into real life that demands fuller scrutiny

And there’s no one uncomplicated answer on that for any story. Different people are gonna have different reactions to the same work, on all three points. There are fandoms I just never got into, because the main characters didn’t grab me enough for there to be any incentive to play along with whatever their Standards-Warping Special Snowflake Bullshit was. There are others where I ate that shit up but grumped about it the whole time, because the writing seemed to be huffing its own paint fumes re: narratively vs actually justified. And others where it wasn’t bullshit or grump-worthy at all, because the story knew damn well when it was offering to take you for a ride and when it was in dead earnest and when it was having too much fun to know for sure. (And the last point, about RL persuasion, has a whole stable of sub-essays about intent, responsibility, actual effectiveness at persuading, risk of actually picking up unexamined bullshit vs. sheer annoyance at being sold a load of crap you have no interest in buying... it’s all complicated!)

The “moral suspension of disbelief” mechanism itself, though? It’s a routine part of telling and being told stories. It’s in play every time you don’t give a shit about the widows and orphans and rich inner lives of the redshirts getting killed off. Every time you take satisfaction in watching an obnoxious character meet an outlandishly awful fate they would never have deserved in real life. Every time you root for a protagonist pulling a long-shot heroic stunt that would recklessly endanger everyone around them if the laws of narrative probability weren’t so thoroughly in their favor.

I’m going to haul out Captain America: The Winter Soldier, a movie I love dearly, for examples of both a success and a failure at getting me, personally, to suspend judgement. On pretty much the same highly-morally-charged question of fact--the efficacy of torture, and how it’s portrayed in fiction. The success: I really don’t give a fuck that the movie trotted out a bunch of hoary old chestnuts about torture, brainwashing, and miraculously competent mindfucked double agents to get from Point A to all the tasty layers of identity porn we’re really here for. It’s convenient handwavium presented as Literal Comic Book Science. The traditional fearmongering about inhuman foreign enemies and their magical exotic mind-control techniques is a vaguely-gestured-at red herring; the onscreen horror is homegrown and ugly. The tropes themselves are a crock of shit, and the later movies completely dropped the ball on questions of responsibility and rehabilitation, but zero claims or assumptions about reality are being put forth here, except that The Really Bad Shit Is Coming From Inside The House.

The same can’t be said for Steve, Sam, and Natasha getting from Point A to Point "Obligatory exposition the movie could just as easily have delivered any other way” by... uh... staging a mock execution on a Hydra mole? And doing it as a quick, dirty, totally effective, totally-justified-by-the-Proverbial-Ticking-Clock, nasty-but-efficient way to get 100% accurate information out of someone who has zero incentive to cooperate. All of which is taken so thoroughly for granted that the whole scene, particularly the idea that Steve might consider it unconscionable, is played as a joke. That’s fucking rancid. Doubly rancid for this movie (whose politics are otherwise “what if the real fascism was the national-security state we built along the way”) to be blithely regurgitating the exact same War on Terror propaganda talking points that are still used to "justify” actual, real-life, really fucking recent US war crimes. Triply rancid to have the character who is literally called Captain America, who is supposed to be the country’s idealized conscience in the face of whatever its most topical ongoing failings happen to be, ringleading that shit. Listen, I love this movie, but that scene is straight-up morally indefensible. It skates by on good comic timing juuust long enough for the next big plot point to click into place and divert your attention before you can think too hard about it. But think about it for five seconds and it’s vile.

There was also a weird trend in some of the first waves of fanfiction after CA:TWS came out, which I suspect was the result of a mismatch in moral-disbelief-suspension between that movie and Person of Interest. Overall the tonal, thematic, and subject-matter overlap between the two canons is downright uncanny, but it’s not 100%, and one of the little differences is that the crew of maladjusted weirdoes on Person of Interest are big on “covert surveillance of your friends & loved ones as Actually A Gesture Of Affection.” A number of popular authors who’d written in both fandoms ported that over to CA:TWS fic as an endearing quirk to spice up the character dynamics, and let me tell you, it hit real differently in that universe.

#meta #Anonymous

33 notes · View notes

a-green-onion · 4 years ago

Text

The He*archate vs Umberto Eco’s “Ur-Fascism”

ok it looks like I haven’t already done this, so! A lot of fictional Evil Empires use the visuals of fascism (iirc the Star Wars original trilogy did this), but not all of them follow through on making the Empire substantially fascist in ideology and practice. Machineries of Empire certainly has fascist visual components, with its regiments of black-shirted soldiers. Umberto Eco, a writer who grew up in Italy under Mussolini, wrote an essay about growing up under that regime and his ideas about key features of fascist and fascist-like movements (I’ll link it in a reblog, I don’t want Tumblr eating this post. I really recommend it, it’s very accessible and well-written). I want to see how much the he*archate correlates with these. It’s easy to get caught up in all the flashy space battles and gory exotic tortures, but YHL is very into military history, and that’s one reason his despotic regimes work so well--they’re taken from real life.

This is horribly incomplete because in my reread I’m only about halfway through Ninefox Gambit, but...I wanna Post.

An important note to start: Eco uses “fascism”, the name for Italian political movement, to refer to a variety of different totalitarian regimes and philosophies, because “fascism had no quintessence. Fascism was a fuzzy totalitarianism, a collage of different philosophical and political ideas, a beehive of contradictions.” Further, “Fascism became an all-purpose term because one can eliminate from a fascist regime one or more features, and it will still be recognizable as fascist.” Thus, the common characteristics he lists are not features of every fascist movement, and are often features of non-fascist repressive movements. The he*archate does not have all these features, but I think it makes sense to analyze it as a fascist empire.

Without further ado:

1. The cult of tradition, including syncretic occultism. “As a consequence, there can be no advancement of learning. Truth has been already spelled out once and for all, and we can only keep interpreting its obscure message” (Eco).

The he*archate does not do this. As I pointed out in an earlier post, there are no foundational religious beliefs behind the High Calendar. No holy texts, no prophets, just a way of life, a set of practices, and endless heresies.

2. Rejection of modernism. “Even though Nazism was proud of its industrial achievements, its praise of modernism was only the surface of an ideology based upon Blood and Earth (Blut und Boden)” (Eco).

I don’t think the he*archate does this? I might be forgetting something though, feel free to chime in.

3. Action for action’s sake. (Eco)

Kel Kel Kel Kel Kel.

4. Inability to tolerate analysis. “Disagreement is treason.” (Eco)

Yeah that’s precisely how the High Calendar functions.

5. “Ur-Fascism grows up and seeks for consensus by exploiting and exacerbating the natural fear of difference. The first appeal of a fascist or prematurely fascist movement is an appeal against the intruders.”

So, we don’t get to see much of the heptarchate in its earliest forms, and what we do see is in the third book, which I don’t remember super well. I think the he*archate does this, but it’s more obvious how in the context of Eco’s points 5 and 9.

6. “Derives from individual or social frustration” and features an “appeal to a frustrated middle class.”

Again, this talks more about how fascism begins than how it continues. The he*archate is an established, stable totalitarian empire, not a burgeoning movement (which is interesting because by rights this house of cards should have collapsed centuries ago). It would be interesting to look at how the hexarchate uses propaganda but uhhh iirc that’s mostly in the second and third books and I don’t remember them that well.

7. Nationalism, and the obsession with a plot, both as an outside and an inside threat.

Reflected in how the heretics (an inside plot) are iirc assumed to be aligned with the Hafn (an outside threat). See also point 9.

8. “The followers must feel humiliated by the ostentatious wealth and force of their enemies. [...] However, the followers must be convinced that they can overwhelm the enemies. Thus, by a continuous shifting of rhetorical focus, the enemies are at the same time too strong and too weak. Fascist governments are condemned to lose wars because they are constitutionally incapable of objectively evaluating the force of the enemy.”

...I think the he*archate might win too many wars for this to be applicable?

9. “Pacifism is trafficking with the enemy [...] life is permanent warfare. This, however, brings about an Armageddon complex. Since enemies have to be defeated, there must be a final battle, after which the movement will have control of the world. But such a “final solution” implies a further era of peace, a Golden Age, which contradicts the principle of permanent war. No fascist leader has ever succeeded in solving this predicament.”

The he*archate absolutely does live in a state of permanent war, against heresy which is everywhere. The he*archate seems to have solved this predicament by achieving a placid, high standard of living for the majority of its citizenry, contingent upon those citizens’ complicity in the ritual torture of prisoners of this “war.” Thus, every citizen is both invested and involved in the fighting and encouraged to identify with its sacrifices, but also able to live in a true golden age. I’ve always thought about this aspect of the he*archate as in conversation with Ursula K. LeGuin’s short story “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,” but that’s an essay for another day.

10. Contempt for the weak and popular elitism. “Every citizen belongs to the best people of the world, the members of the party are the best among the citizens, every citizen can (or ought to) become a member of the party. But there cannot be patricians without plebeians. In fact, the Leader, knowing that his power was not delegated to him democratically but was conquered by force, also knows that his force is based upon the weakness of the masses; they are so weak as to need and deserve a ruler. Since the group is hierarchically organized (according to a military model), every subordinate leader despises his own underlings, and each of them despises his inferiors. This reinforces the sense of mass elitism.”

This one isn’t an obvious component, but I think it’s present, especially looking at how the Kel talk about “crashhawks”. I’m going to keep a closer eye out for it as I reread.

Cheris is “un-Kel” because she cannot do this. One of the first things we see Cheris do is order her soldiers into a mildly heretical formation to keep them alive, and we see again and again how well she knows, respects, and cares for the people and servitors under her command.

On the flip side, Kujen is able to become the system’s architect precisely because he despises his inferiors, and sees everyone as an inferior. As we learn in the third book, this does not come naturally to him, but inducing this state of mind in himself is necessary for his success.

11. “Everybody is educated to become a hero. [...] This cult of heroism is strictly linked with the cult of death. [...] In non-fascist societies, the lay public is told that death is unpleasant but must be faced with dignity; believers are told that it is the painful way to reach a supernatural happiness. By contrast, the Ur-Fascist hero craves heroic death, advertised as the best reward for a heroic life. The Ur-Fascist hero is impatient to die. In his impatience, he more frequently sends other people to death.”

Kel Kel Kel Kel.

12. “Machismo (which implies both disdain for women and intolerance and condemnation of nonstandard sexual habits, from chastity to homosexuality).”

The he*archate absolutely, emphatically does not do this. Plenty of gender equality, plenty of nonstandard sexual behavior.

But! There is another component to point 12. “Since even sex is a difficult game to play, the Ur-Fascist hero tends to play with weapons—doing so becomes an ersatz phallic exercise.” This might be relevant to the commonness of dueling as a form of entertainment, both as a participant and a spectator sport? I don’t think dueling is particularly eroticized but it’s certainly linked to exchanges of power.

13. Selective populism. “In a democracy, the citizens have individual rights, but the citizens in their entirety have a political impact only from a quantitative point of view—one follows the decisions of the majority. For Ur-Fascism, however, individuals as individuals have no rights, and the People is conceived as a quality, a monolithic entity expressing the Common Will. Since no large quantity of human beings can have a common will, the Leader pretends to be their interpreter. Having lost their power of delegation, citizens do not act; they are only called on to play the role of the People. Thus the People is only a theatrical fiction.”

Not a strong theme in MoE, but arguably, this is how the calendar operates: on the Will of the People, carefully channeled by the appropriate authorities.

Also, not strictly relevant, but everyone needs to see this line: “There is in our future a TV or Internet populism, in which the emotional response of a selected group of citizens can be presented and accepted as the Voice of the People.” Hm.

14. Newspeak. “All the Nazi or Fascist schoolbooks made use of an impoverished vocabulary, and an elementary syntax, in order to limit the instruments for complex and critical reasoning. But we must be ready to identify other kinds of Newspeak, even if they take the apparently innocent form of a popular talk show.”

Again, I’d like to take another look at the propaganda that gets sent out in later books to talk about this properly! The Kel make heavy internal use of euphemisms, but that’s not quite the same thing.

***

Anyway, that was fun, and I hope everyone learned something about how fascism emerges! I encourage you to read the entire essay, chew on its ideas a bit, think about if they apply to other fictional words and to real life.

#tooth speech #ninefox gambit buddy read #ninefox gambit spoilers #machineries of empire #machineries of empire spoilers #fascism cw #nazis cw #long post

29 notes · View notes

aphspain-pure · 4 years ago

Text

Spanish Gold in Moscow

@hetaliamondaychallenge September 28: “Chaos isn’t meant to be understood”.

Category: Fanfic.

Pair: RusSpa (Russia x Spain).

Words: 2.073.

Genre: Historical, Drama, angst, shounen-ai.

Note(s): During the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939) the Sencond Spanish Republic was completely ignored by Europe, while the fascist that had rebealed were helped by some militar forces. Spain was basically used as a test game of the military armament and strategy before the 2WW. The only country that gave real help to the Republic was the USSR. To finance the war, the government spent all the Spanish gold.

1938

With an absolute ill look in his face, Spain, who still liked to considerate himself as the Second Spanish Republic, moved his gaze to the door that opened a few seconds before.

Nations could perceive other nations in a certain rate, so he wasn’t really surprised when the other entered the room; he had sensed him from far away, knowing he was leading to his position. Weary eyes without the so-called typical Spanish shine looked at the other, a little smile crossing his feverish face.

- Buenos días, Rusia.

Right in front of him, heavy, enormous and clearly powerful, the actual leader of the giant Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Russia, stared back at him with his famous sweet smile. Spain didn’t have known him till a pair of centuries ago, but he knew about this certain characteristic even before personally meeting him. He heard from France, England, Prussia, Austria and even Denmark about this “gentle look monster” that was so big and terrifying in the east.

Anyway, Spain didn’t have really hated this guy even once; he was actually grateful for his performance during the Napoleonic wars, though. If it wouldn’t have been for the Russian forces, France’s troops wouldn’t have retired from his vital territory and he wouldn’t have regained his independence. He sighed, trying to get rid of the thoughts of the past.

He was now, currently, going to lose his independence against his own people, in the middle of the worst civil war he had ever have –and Spain was certainly a country that had endured quite some civil wars-.

A strong ache tortured his mind while he suffered a new wave of deaths. Every time his people died, his body would burn and a painful sensation split him in two. They were dying at that very moment, out there, in the valley of the Ebro, killing each other in a battle that had been going on for months. He nearly cried, but couldn’t afford doing it in front of the power that was standing over there, staring at him with a complicated look in his eyes.

After a few moments, Russia, still smiling even if Spain’s looks were terrible, spoke with a calmed voice. – How are your wounds? –he had asked.

A quick smile was formed in the Spaniard’s mouth, quite ironic.

- Well, my right arm has grown up again, so I can’t complain.

Russia stared at the renewed arm, where a few days ago only a stump could have been appreciated. They, nations, received wounds just like humans but their bodies weren’t actually the same. If they were cut, they would recover; if they lost blood, after resting for a while they’d be up again; if they were burn till ashes, they would start to be reborn just like a Fenix. If they were killed, they wouldn’t die.

Only another nation could kill one.

Even if Spain had lately started to question if a nation could kill itself, just like how he was feeling during these days in which he thought he was actually going to be destroyed by his own people.

Russia’s hand reached him and touched his back. He jumped for a moment, sored. He then relaxed, looking far away and not giving attention to the hands that touched his still bleeding injuries.

When a certain happening was so bad, so traumatic, that it gave the nations nearly-coma state, the injuries would still remain bleeding some time. Sometimes it lasted days, sometimes centuries. Those were produced by the bombing, the Biltz, in Guernica, and they still bleed after a year.

He trembled, just by remembering it. The hand in his back made him shiver in pain, but it was the most comforting thing he could afford to have those days, so he didn’t say anything.

Then, he gained composure and faced the other. - What are you doin’ here, anyway? I thought you were going back at your place for some bureaucracy stuff.

Russia remained silent.

That silence made Spain worry.

He didn’t hate Russia at all. He was nice to him, and every time they had met he could only see a true innocence behind the brute and scary dude everyone saw. He liked him quite a bit, and he lately, during his few peaceful years with a Republic, found out that he was such an intelligent and interesting chat partner. Thanks to the leftist ideology of his government the relations with the Soviet Union had been pretty good, so they had become nearly friends at this point.

He even had became the only nation helping him in this suicidal situation.

During civil wars Spain, normally, stayed apart and watched his people decide his fate. He disliked choosing between his beloved people, so que stayed aside.

This time, he couldn’t.

He had seen what happened with Italy after the Great War. The fascism grow up and ate Ita-chan and Romano completely. The brutality that came with it made Spain shiver from his position in the neighbour peninsula. He didn’t recognise his cute Italian brothers with those black shirts and that dark look in their face. Then it expanded to Germany and developed into the National Socialism, which happened to be even worse. A virus was expanding all over Europe and even reached his brother, Portugal.

Spain could have seen it coming. He even spoke with a few general of the army and old requetés, he tried to create a flexible government just to evade the incoming clash. But it was all in vain.

The military coup happened, and while it wasn’t effective, war broke out.

It may be pathetic coming from a country that used to be a world power but, this time, Spain feared his people. That’s why he stayed with the republicans. That’s why he suddenly started dying from the insides.

And while Spain was in that desperate situation, Europe didn’t mind at all and, trying to avoid a Second World War, signed a No Intervention Pact in which 27 countries swore not to intervene in his civil war. That had broken Spain’s heart, who found himself suddenly isolated and left apart, left to die alone. It was even worse when, even if knowing it, the United Kingdom looked away while the Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy broke that pact and helped the rebels. He couldn’t believe England’s coward attitude.

But it was kinda worst when he watched his closest friends actually attack him, help the fascist rebels.

First, the Italian brothers; then, Germany, Austria and Prussia under the name of the Third Reich. Portugal also attacked the Republic by sending his Viriatos and even the American self-proclaimed Hero’s Ford Company sent help to destroy him. All his old friends were against him. He, on the other hand, only received some fusils from Mexico and a few airplanes from a very scared France, who refused to send more help. The only one who lent him it’s power was the Soviet Union, or preferably Russia.

He still remembered when he had met Romano in the site of Toledo. Romano had been excited, he spoke about autarchy, about having a great colonial empire, and about things such as war being the way through the future. His golden eyes sparkled when he had, for the first time in centuries, hugged Spain.

If you join us I promise we’ll bring this to an end. –he had whispered, while speaking about how great it was being a fascist country.

He had been then, suddenly, pulled apart by a giant body that happened to be his ally, Russia, who looked at Romano with electric violet cruel eyes. Spain could have said something to stop a conflict, but, when he looked at Roma, he couldn’t longer see his cute tomato-like crybaby. In the past Romano would have cried and call him to save him but, then, he held his gaze prideful, strong and dangerous in front of the terrible Russia.

A bombing had made them react and, when he came to himself, he was with the International Brigades heading to Madrid.

Remembering all of that made him feel sick and hided half of his face while looking at the floor with a tired smile.

He suddenly had an urge to vomit, but he managed to stay calm and recover a moment later. – Sorry, I beg you excuse me. My house is total chaos now, no, wait… EUROPE is a total chaos now, haha…! I don’t understand how or why, but it makes me think things a way too much.

- Chaos isn’t meant to be understood.

That statement made Spain stay quiet and, then, he looked with his nearly dead green eyes at the other.

- I’m going to ask again, Russia. –he said, this time, cautious-. Why are you here?

- You haven’t paid me to help you lately.

And if he had frozen before, this time Spain had lost all the blood of his veins.

He started sweating. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t.

- Y-yeah, I-I know… It’s just that all the gold that I’ve been keeping in my reserves has been already taken to Moscow, so I-I…

Russia’s voice was sweet but cold as ice. – You’re not going to pay for my services.

The Spaniard’s eyes opened at his full.

- No! Don’t even think ‘bout that! I’ll pay, I swear it! It’s just that, right now, my people are starving, we don’t have armament and the industry it’s all stopped. I can’t now but, when we win, I’ll return what I owe! A-and I’ll even make it double…! I’ll work hard, I swear. But, now, with all my old gold gone, I…

- So you’re not paying.

The calmed voice made Spain feel like if he were to hyperventilate. He felt like crashing. Like glass about to break.

- I’m not. –he confirmed then.

The taller man stood up, and Spain followed him, clearly desperate.

- Y-you can’t leave me, Russia! If I don’t have your help I’m lost! –after hearing those words the Slavic turned around and faced him, with his so-typical smile in his face.

- So you’ll pay me?

The brunette looked away, clearly ashamed. – I have… nothing to pay you with. B-but I promise..!

- Нет. You can pay me. –response that took an ¿hah..? out of Spain. Russia laughed in a calmed way and then, explained. – Even if you don’t have anything you still possess your body, da?

And Spain’s eyes darkened.

Ah, true. Nation prostitution.

It had been a while.

It used to be so common in the past that he didn’t know why he felt so surprised when Russia suggested it. It may have been ‘cause Russia is fairly younger than himself, or ‘cause the times have changed. He had been so accustomed to it even when he was a child that it wasn’t so much of a surprise finding out that some new power wanted to take advantage of his position to appeal to this. Spain could easily remember when he was forced to be Rome’s or the Islamic Empire’s sex-boy, or even Turkey’s or France’s. Well, he had also been like that with some nations; but, well, let he who is without sin cast the first stone, and he was also a sinner after all.

He looked back at Russia and sighed. – Is this old damaged body worth all the gold I could have had afford to pay you weeks before? –and Russia’s aura became surprisingly pink, just like a happy kid’s.

- And much more! I’m happy so I’ll help you.

And leaned forward to kiss Spain’s forehead. Spain rised an eyebrow, but let him be, anyway. He needed help and Russia was eager to help him only receiving some affectionate touches here and there in return. There were worst things he could have had to do.

Another wave of pain drove him crazy sored and let himself drown in the straw bed he had been using before. He took a deep breath.

Then, when the fever started to be stable again, spoke directly to Russia.

- Well, then, how about a quickie? I have to go back to the battlefield in 30 minutes and I think I could come back quite worse than now, ha ha. –he had laughed, with his shiny –and now tiny- smile.

Russia smiled back, getting rid of his Soviet general military hat while getting closer to the sun-burned skinned nation. He sat, and grabbed the other’s cheeks with a gloved strong hand. That tranquil smile crossed his happy face.

- Let me tell you this is going to be a payment in instalments.

#hetaliamondaychallenge #hetalia #ruspa #russispa #russia x spain #APH Spain #APH Russia #APH Germany #aph romano #APH Italy #aph portugal #implied spamano #Spanish History

32 notes · View notes

absurdlakefront · 4 years ago

Text

Trump’s coup attempt of 2020-21, like other failed coup attempts, is a warning for those who care about the rule of law and a lesson for those who do not. His pre-fascism revealed a possibility for American politics. For a coup to work in 2024, the breakers will require something that Trump never quite had: an angry minority, organized for nationwide violence, ready to add intimidation to an election. Four years of amplifying a big lie just might get them this. To claim that the other side stole an election is to promise to steal one yourself. It is also to claim that the other side deserves to be punished.

Informed observers inside and outside government agree that right-wing white supremacism is the greatest terrorist threat to the United States. Gun sales in 2020 hit an astonishing high. History shows that political violence follows when prominent leaders of major political parties openly embrace paranoia.

Our big lie is typically American, wrapped in our odd electoral system, depending upon our particular traditions of racism. Yet our big lie is also structurally fascist, with its extreme mendacity, its conspiratorial thinking, its reversal of perpetrators and victims and its implication that the world is divided into us and them. To keep it going for four years courts terrorism and assassination.

When that violence comes, the breakers will have to react. If they embrace it, they become the fascist faction. The Republican Party will be divided, at least for a time. One can of course imagine a dismal reunification: A breaker candidate loses a narrow presidential election in November 2024 and cries fraud, the Republicans win both houses of Congress and rioters in the street, educated by four years of the big lie, demand what they see as justice. Would the gamers stand on principle if those were the circumstances of Jan. 6, 2025?

To be sure, this moment is also a chance. It is possible that a divided Republican Party might better serve American democracy; that the gamers, separated from the breakers, might start to think of policy as a way to win elections. It is very likely that the Biden-Harris administration will have an easier first few months than expected; perhaps obstructionism will give way, at least among a few Republicans and for a short time, to a moment of self-questioning. Politicians who want Trumpism to end have a simple way forward: Tell the truth about the election.

America will not survive the big lie just because a liar is separated from power. It will need a thoughtful repluralization of media and a commitment to facts as a public good. The racism structured into every aspect of the coup attempt is a call to heed our own history. Serious attention to the past helps us to see risks but also suggests future possibility. We cannot be a democratic republic if we tell lies about race, big or small. Democracy is not about minimizing the vote nor ignoring it, neither a matter of gaming nor of breaking a system, but of accepting the equality of others, heeding their voices and counting their votes.

#post-truth #coup #fascism #timothy snyder #history

4 notes · View notes

apenitentialprayer · 4 years ago

Text

The Coordinate

Attack on Titan and the Metaphysics of Fascism

(x) tl;dr: Religious fascists believe in a mystical connection existing between members of the same racial-national group; Christians also believe in a mystical connection existing between members of their Church; how does a Christian avoid the fascist potential of this idea? One of the ideas that are introduced in the third season of Attack on Titan is the Coordinate; the race of people that the main characters belong to are all connected in a way that transcends space and time, sharing a power that other peoples do not possess. This is the Ymir Spirit, the “Coordinate” to which every Eldian is connected, and through which the souls of all Eldians are intertwined. Through this connection, Eldians are capable of inheriting the Power of the Titans, which will spontaneously appear in another Eldian should the Titan die in a way that prevents them from passing the power onto someone else. Now, we must understand that race is a social construct. This is not to say that real physical difference between people don’t exist; what it does mean, however, is that physical traits exist along several continuums (eye color, shade of skin, height, facial structure, etc), and that recognizing a specific configuration of traits as a ‘race’ is determined by social and historical factors. Medieval Arab understandings of race allowed for people who would be considered black today to be considered “white” (white, in this context, meaning Arab and not European), while the multivalent meaning of race in the 18th century meant the exclusion of some people who would be considered white today from the whiteness of 18th Century Europe and its narrower definition. Race may be based partly on appearance, but it is constructed through social categories. Attack on Titan takes on an essentialized view of race, where race is not merely a social category, but an innate characteristic; whether or not you are a True Eldian is simply a matter of whether or not you are connected to the Ymir spirit. The world can be divided into “insiders” and “outsiders” based on this criterion; though the idea that there are “racial spirits,” an inner metaphysical reality that certain people are in tune with by virtue of birth, may seem alien to those who see race as a social construct. But starting in the 1870s and stretching well into the twentieth century, we see just that kind of thought. In German thinkers in particular, we see this racialized national mysticism developed in the context of the “Jewish problem.” The development of nationalism, the belief that the government is legitimized through the fact that it represents a nation of people, led to an awkward situation throughout most of Western Europe; if France is for the French nation, how are the Jews in France (who have been defined for most of French history as not French) to participate in French civic life? How are Jews in Germany, who have been defined for most of German history as foreigners, to participate in German civic life? Many thinkers at first believed that the mass conversion of Jews to Christendom was the answer; that Jews could become Germans or Frenchmen if only they were to abandon Judaism, seen as a vile set of cultural norms that kept people from truly becoming part of the modern nation. That changed, though. While German thinkers were trying to find ways of converting Jews to Christianity as late as the 1820s, we see a noticeable shift with Karl Duehring’s 1881 The Question of the Jew is a Question of Race; this work actually describes the conversion of Jews to Christianity as a catastrophe, because the corrupting nature of the “racial Jew” (Racenjude) is now uninhibited by the laws put in place that limited the participation of religious Jews in civic life. In other words, it’s not religion or ideology that makes the dreaded Jew dangerous; in the mind of Duehring, it is something “deeper” than religion, something intrinsically part of the “primal nature” of Jews. This increased interaction with ethnic Jews leads to the corruption of “[the German’s] best impulses.” Two years earlier, Wilheim Marr wrote The Victory of Judaism over Germandom, speaks of the Jew people as a conqueror, having already ruined France and in the middle of ruining Germany; a Christian culture that tolerates Jews is ultimately a culture that brings death to all that is inherently German. This opposition between the supposed German and Jewish natures goes back at least as far as 1815, where Friedrich Ruehs argues that the German and Jewish peoples constitute mutually exclusive and hostile nations. The concept of the völk, the people as a mystical body, a Communion of Germans expressing the true Aryan spirit, became essential to the fascist nationalism of Nazi Germany. It is also the metaphysical underpinning of Eldian identity, a Communion of Titans bound together through their connection with Ymir, the “Coordinate” where all Eldian spirits meet. The individual Eldian may be weak, but each one houses within themselves the possibility of becoming a vessel of immense power. The Eldian and the Nazi can both call upon that reservoir of spiritual strength and pride, while at the same time looking at the enemy that is jealous of this power (the Marleyan and the Jew). (At the same time, the völk ideology of Attack on Titan isn’t the same as the German conception. In the German conception, race mingling damages and ultimately severs the offspring’s connection to the Aryan spirit; like American conceptions of race and the one-drop rule, one’s Aryan blood is diluted into something non-Aryan when interbreeding occurs. The Eldians, meanwhile, basically raped and pillaged the continent in order to increase the number of those connected to the Ymir spirit; in this sense, their völk ideology is more similar to South Asian fascisms like the one expressed in V.D. Savarkar’s Hindutva, where the children of ethnic Hindu and non-Hindu children are ethnic Hindus) Now, I used the phrase “Communion of X” when describing Eldian and Nazi racial mysticism on purpose; to the religious reader, especially belonging to the Catholic and Orthodox communities, I wanted “Communion of Saints” to come to mind. After all, the Catholic and Orthodox communities believe that each and every member of their communities are interconnected, their fates intertwined through a Coordinate of their own, Jesus Christ. A concept that I have just said is popular among fascist circles. We have an “in-group” of our own, the saints in Heaven to whom we are attached and the fellow believers who we share a common baptism with. If you look at the post that I linked at the very beginning of this post, I mentioned that “fascism” is more a collection of ideas and mindsets than an actual ideology. When an ideology has some of those ideas, that doesn’t necessarily make them fascist; it just means that adherents of those ideologies need to be careful, because they can potentially become fascist. And that is true here. So let’s look at völk ideology again to see what pitfalls must be avoided if one is to hold onto the belief that they are bound to a mystical community that transcends time and space. First, völk ideology affirms the natural innateness of this communion; you are born with it. You are special because you were born with your connection to the Race-Spirit, it is a birthright that cannot be taken away. Second, völk ideology is exclusionary; if you are not born with a connection to a particular Race-Spirit, then you can never have a connection. You are an outsider, and will forever be an outsider. You are cut off from the people you are surrounded by on a metaphysical level. Third, every concession you give to someone who does not belong to your Race-Spirit is a weakening of your Race-Spirit. Aryan-ness is threatened by a rich Jew; Hindu-ness is threatened by a Muslim with a large family; Eldian-ness is threatened by a Marleyan state existing across the sea. A Christian must thus remind themselves that their communion is not innate; it is a gift and not a birthright, a source of spiritual humility and not of racial pride. A Christian must remind themselves that even while the Communion separates those who are part of it from those who are not, this Communion is meant to be inclusive, accepting of anyone who desires it. A Christian must remind themselves that aiding an outsider, even an outsider that is an ideological enemy, does not weaken the Communion; rather, it glorifies that Communion. Ultimately, the religious fascist sees himself as part of a mystical bond that includes his nation and excludes everyone else; nations are inherently at odds with one another, because the existence of other nations sets a limit to how much one’s own nation can grow; even worse, contact with members of other nations threatens the very connection your nation has within itself. Those corrupted by other nations must be expelled for the health of the Nation-Spirit. In season 3, Eren and his friends finally see the ocean for the first time. There is a moment of freedom, of childlike adventure, of real accomplishment for the first time since their miserable adventure started. They look out in wonder, they splash around in the waves, they taste salt water for the first time. Everyone but Eren; Eren is too busy looking at the horizon, knowing that Marley exists somewhere on the other side. Eren cannot enjoy this victorious moment of simplicity; the unseen enemy exists somewhere on the other side, an existential threat to his own people simply by virtue of existing. As long as there is a Marley, there can be no peace. Because fascist nations cannot embrace the idea of peace between separate nations.

#Attack on Titan #fascism #racism #antisemitism #tribalism #Nazi #Hindutva #Catholicism #race #Orthodox Christianity #long post

12 notes · View notes