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cy-cyborg · 7 months ago

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The Untrustworthy Fake: Disability Tropes

[ID: A screenshot of Willy Wonka from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory as he limps towards a crowd using a cane. In the picture, he has a brown top hat in his hand, and he's wearing a suit with a purple jacket, multicoloured bow tie and cream coloured pants. Beside him is text that reads: "Disability Tropes, The untrustworthy Fake" /End ID]

Tell me if this sounds familiar: A new character is introduced into a story with some kind of disability - usually visible but not always. Maybe they're a seemingly harmless person in a wheelchair, maybe they're a one-legged beggar on the street, or maybe they're an elderly person with a cane and a slow, heavy limp. But at some point, it's revealed it's all a ruse! The old man with a cane "falls" forward and does a flawless summersault before energetically springing back up to his feet, the wheelchair user gets to their feet as soon as they think the other character's backs are turned, the one legged beggar's crutch is knocked out of his hand, only to have his other leg pop out of his loose-fitting tunic to catch him.

All of these are real examples. Maya and The Three introduces one of it's main protagonists, Ricco, by having him pretend to be missing a leg in order to con people (something that works on the protagonist, at least at first), Buffy The Vampire Slayer had the character Spike, pretend to be in a wheelchair, until the other characters leave and he gets up, revealing it's all a ruse and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory introduces Wonka by having him slowly limp out into the courtyard of the factory, only for his cane to get stuck, causing him to "fall" and jump back up, revealing that he's actually perfectly fine. Virtually every single major crime show in the past few decades has used this trope too, from CSI to The Mentalist, Castle, Law and Order and Monk all having at least one episode featuring it in some way. Even the kids media I grew up with isn't free from it; The Suite Life of Zack & Cody sees Zach faking being dyslexic after meeting someone who actually has the condition in the episode Smarter and Smarter and the SpongeBob SquarePants episode Krabs vs Plankton has Plankton fake needing a wheelchair (among other injuries) after falling in the Krusty Krab as a ploy to sue Mr Krabs and trick the court into giving him the Kraby Patty Formula.

No matter the genre or target audience though, one thing is consistent: this trope is used as a way to show someone is dishonest and not to be trusted. When the trope is used later in the story, it's often meant to be a big reveal, to shock the audience and make them mad that they've been duped, to show the characters and us what this person (usually a villain) is willing to stoop to. Revealing the ruse early on though is very often used to establish how sleazy or even how dangerous a character is and to tell the audience that they shouldn't trust them from the get go. Gene Wilde (The actor who first played Willy Wonka) even said in several interviews that this was his intent for Wonka's character. He even went so far as to tell the director of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that he wouldn't do the film without that scene because of how strongly he felt this trope was needed to lay the foundations for Wonka's questionable intentions and motivations. His exact words are: "...but I wouldn't have done the film if they didn't let me come out walking as a cripple and then getting my cane stuck into a cobble stone, doing a forward somersault and then bouncing up... the director said, well what do you want to do that for? and I said because from that point on, no one will know whether I'm telling the truth or lying."

There's... a lot of problems with this trope, but that quote encapsulates one of the biggest ones. whether intentionally or not, this trope ends up framing a lot of actual disabled people as deceitful, dishonest liars. Now I can already hear you all typing, What?! Cy that's ridiculous! No one is saying real disabled people are untrustworthy or lying about their disabilities, just people who are faking!

but the thing is, the things often used in this trope as "evidence" of someone faking a disability are things real disabled people do. A person standing up from their wheelchair or having scuff-marks on their shoes, like in the episode Miss Red from The Mentalist isn't a sign they're faking, a lot of wheelchair users can stand and even walk! They're called ambulatory wheelchair users, and they might use a wheelchair because they can't walk far, they might not feel safe walking on all terrains, they might have unstable joints that makes standing for too long risky, they might have a heart condition like POTS that has a bigger impact when they stand up or any number of other reasons. Also even non-ambulatory wheelchair users will still have scuff marks from things like transferring and bumping into things (rather hilariously, even TV Tropes calls this episode out as being "BS" in it's listing for this trope, which it refers to as Obfuscating Disability). A blind beggar flinching or getting scared when you pull a gun on them isn't a sign they're faking their blindness like it is in Red Dead Redemption 2. Plenty of blind people can still see a little bit, it might only be a general sense of light and darkness, it might be exceptionally blurry or just the fuzzy outlines of shapes, or they might only be able to see something directly in front of them, all of which might still be enough to cue the person into what's happening in a situation like that. Even if it's not, the sound of you pulling your gun out or other people nearby freaking out and making noise probably would tip them off. A person needing a cane or similar mobility aid sometimes, but being able to go without briefly or do even "big movements" like Wonka's rolling somersault, doesn't mean they don't need it at all. Just like with wheelchairs, there's a lot of disabilities that require canes and similar aids some days, and not others. Some disabilities even allow people those big, often straining movements on occasion, or allow them to move without the aid for short periods of time, but not for long. Some people's disability's might even require a mobility aid like a cane as a backup, just in case something goes wrong, but that still means you need to carry it around with you, and unless it can fold down, it's easier to just use it.

Disability is a spectrum, and a lot of disabilities vary in severity and what is required of the people who have them day to day. This trope, however, helps to perpetuate the idea that someone who does any of these things (and many others) is faking, which can actively make the lives of disabled people harder and can even put them in very real danger, physically, mentally and even financially.

Just ask any ambulatory wheelchair user about how many times they've been yelled at for using accommodations they need, like disabled toilets or parking spaces. How many times they've been accused of faking and even filmed without their consent because they stood up in public, even if it was to do something like get their wheelchair unstuck or as simple as them standing to briefly reach something on a high shelf. I've caught multiple people filming me before, so have my friends and family, and it's honestly scary not knowing where those images have ended up. This doesn't just impact the person either, a friend of mine was filmed while standing up to get his daughter (who was about 4 at the time) out of the car. He was lucky to have stumbled across the video a few days later on facebook and contacted the group admins where it was posted to get it taken down, but had he not stumbled across it by chance, pictures with his home address and his car's number plate, his child's face and his face all visible would have just been floating around, all because a woman saw him stand briefly to pick up his daughter.

Many people don't stop at just saying a nasty comment or taking a photo though, a lot of people, when they suspect people are faking, will get violent. I have many friends who have been pushed, slapped in the face, spat on or had their mobility devices kicked out from under them. I've even been in a few situations myself where, had I not had people with me, I think the situation would have turned violent.

There's even been cases where those photos and videos I've mentioned before have been used against real disabled people and they've been reported to their country's welfare system as committing disability fraud. While cases like this are usually resolved *relatively* quickly, in many parts of the world, their payment will be halted while the investigation is in process, meaning they may be without any income at all because of someone else's ignorance. If you're already struggling to make ends meet (which, if you're only living off one of those payments, you probably will be), a few weeks without pay can mean the difference between having a home and being on the streets.

Not to mention that when there's so many stories about people faking a disability in the media, especially when the character is doing it to get some kind of "advantage", such as getting accommodations or some kind of disability benefit, it perpetuates the idea that people are rorting the systems put in place to help disabled people. If this idea becomes prevalent enough, the people in charge start making it harder for the people who need them to access those systems, which more often than not results in disabled people not even being able to access the very systems that are supposed to be helping them. A very, very common example of this is in education where accommodations for things like learning disabilities require you to jump through a ridiculous number of hoops, especially at higher levels, only to have some teachers and professors refuse to adhere to the adaptations anyway because they're convinced the student (and usually disabled students as a whole) is faking.

Yes, the "untrustworthy faker" is a fictional trope, and yes, it does occasionally happen in real life, but not as often as media (including things like news outlets) would have you believe. However, when the media we consume is priming people to look for signs that a disabled person is faking, it has a real impact on real disabled people's lives. "Fake-claiming" is a massive problem for people in pretty much all parts of the disabled community, and it ranges from being just annoying (e.g. such as people spamming and fake-claiming blind people online with "if you were really blind, how do you see the screen" comments) to the more serious cases I mentioned above. It's for this reason a lot of folks in the disabled community ask that people leave this trope out of their works.

#Writing disability with Cy Cyborg #Long Post #Disability #Disabled #Disability Representation #Writing Disability #Writing #Writeblr #Authors #Creators #Writing Advice #Disabled Characters #On Writing #Disability in Media #Tropes #Disability Tropes #faking disability trope

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

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Called to Duty 4

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, abandonment, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Summary: You struggle to move on from the biggest mistake of your life but find it hard to forget among the whispers of a small town.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The bank is as ever anxiety inducing. On pay day, you go down to cash your check then give most of it right back, parsing it out for your various expenses. At the end of it, you have even less than the month before. You don't get it. Thing's only seem to get worse; not just money, but your body. Every day you wake up, you feel even more crummy than the last.

Your hopes of a treat at the cafe are dashed. You give a longing look as you walk by and peer through the window. You can smell cinnamon and coffee. You're strict non-caffeinated, doctor's orders, but a decaf would be amazing with one of those cinnamon buns. Ugh, damn, why are you torturing yourself?

You turn to continue down the street but barely dodge out of the way of another pedestrian. He makes sure you can't pass as he mirrors you, sidestepping to block your way. You sigh as you step back and look Sy in the face. For a big man, he sure can sneak up on you.

"Hey," he flips up his dark sunglasses, "how're you feeling?"

You stare up at him defiantly, not quite bold enough to glare. He hasn't done anything wrong, he's just persistent. It isn't his fault he reminds you of that spoiled deadbeat. Or that your emotions are volatile, one moment teary eyed, the next blazing hot with rage.

"Fine, thanks for asking," you shrug, "Sy, I gotta--"

"I owe you a cookie," he points to the cafe window at his shoulder.

You blink. You remember the cracked shortbread. You forgot about that. The mention of the sugary treat makes your stomach growl and your mouth water.

"No, you don't--"

"I do," he insists, "I don't like to carry 'round debts. Let me buy you one."

"I got it free," you say, "it's not a big deal."

"It is to me," he counters, "I was heading in anyway."

You stare at him. You really don't get this man. You're no longer so sure that Thor sent him to check up on you, not since your last interaction. In fact, the wingman seemed more spiteful of him than you. You look across the steeet to the pharmacy then back at him. The aromas wafting out with each swing of the door have you ravenous.

"I can't stay long, I gotta work," you say.

His cheeks twitch, as if he tamps back a smile before it can bloom, "after you."

He gesture behind you to the door. You turn and lead the way. He reaches past you to open the door before you can and you enter ahead of him. The din within is lively and the air is warm from the crowd and the employees steaming out orders behind the counter.

"Wanna find a seat?" He suggests, "you should rest."

You open your mouth to argue but think better of it. You'd rather not stand in the clustered line. You nod and head off to claim the table by the window. There isn't much left.

You pull out the chair and brace your back as you sit with a sigh. You glance over and find Sy watching you as he stands in the queue. His gaze makes you want to wilt, instead you turn your attention out the window.

Not even Thor looked at you like that. Don't be silly. Sy is just being a dutiful guy, helping out the town slut in her time of need. You won't be duped. Not when you can hear your name being twisted on tongues at that very moment.

You sit and wait, wring the strap of your small purse. You watch the street. If it wasn't for the people, Hammer Ford would be serene.

A plate clinks in front of you and a porcelain mug as well. It isn't a cookie and you can smell the herbal tea's rosy flavour. You peer up at Sy as he gives an apologetic look.

"Cookies are still baking so I got you a cinnamon bun," he says.

"And tea?" You add.

"Can't have one without the other," he says, "no coffee for you."

"Yeah, I... I know."

You could laugh. He suggested before he's been reading things about pregnancy. You just can't picture him with a copy of What To Expect When You're Expecting.

"Thank you," you smile as best you can.

"Gotta get mine, be back," he excuses himself and marches back to the counter.

You look down at the gooey iced draped spiral. You really shouldn't. Not only accept his misspent generosity but indulge in the excess sugar. Yet your hormones won't let you resist. You can at least wait until he's sitting down.

He returns with a black coffee and a rather colourful donut. They don't match. Bitter and sweet all at once. He sits and takes off his hat and sunglasses.

You put your purse to the edge of the table and rest your hand on your stomach, doing your best to resist the animalistic need to tear apart the dessert. His eyes follow the movement and you quickly drop your arm. You don't even think when you do it, it's just a habit.

"You-" he begins.

"Wh--" you find your voice at the same time.

You both stop, hesitant. He nods and gestures to you, lifting his cup as he watches you intently. That's new too. Thor never listened much, only talked a lot. Besides, you weren't exactly together for the conversation.

"Sy," you clear your throat and sit forward as much as you can, "why are you following me around?"

His brows form a vee, "I'm... it's not... I'm tryna help."

"Okay, but why?"

His eyes flick up to the ceiling and his cheek ticks as he gives the question genuine thought. When he looks at you again, his face is set, "because I want to."

"You want to?"

"Yes, I'd like to take care of you. And the little one, if you'll let me."

You can't help your snort, "we hardly know each other."

"Isn't for lack of trying," he taps his fingers on his mug. "Aren't ya gonna try the bun?"

"I will," you assure him. He's trying to distract you and it's close to working. The cinnamon is driving you mad. "A baby is a lot of work and... I'm not your responsibility. I know Thor is your friend."

"Was," he interjects.

"Sure," you accept his decisive declaration, "but that doesn't mean you have to worry about his mistakes."

"Mistakes? I don't think so," he says.

"Well, it's not exactly planned," you scoff, "Sy, really I don't feel right about you doing so much."

"Wouldn't feel right not doing it," he shrugs his burly shoulders.

“But why?” You nearly exclaim. You just want to know why he cares so much, about you?

He leans forward, elbows on the table, “they talk about me too, ya know? Since I got back from... serving. They say I’m f—crazy, or whatever. It wasn’t easy or nothin’ over there but I’m not nuts. Not like they say. Just like you’re not some slut, forgive me for saying it out loud.”

You look down at the table and exhale. So he hears as much as anyone else about you. At least he’s honest. At least he isn’t joining them. You purse your lips and reach for the cinnamon bun, unable to restrain yourself any longer.

“For what it’s worth,” you raise your eyes to meet his, “I never thought you were... unwell, or whatever they say.”

His cheeks pinch, another suppressed smile, and he tilts his head, “I’m only happy to hear you think of me.”

#captain syverson #dark captain syverson #dark!captain syverson #captain syverson x reader #drabble #backwoods #called to duty #series #sand castle #au

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fayes-fics · 10 months ago

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When The World Is Free: Chapter 5 - Sans Y Penser

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none really... mildly angsty situations, some flirting and interesting proposals.

Word Count: 2.9k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. HERE BE PLOT. A lot of things happen in this one afternoon. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Le Havre, September 1939

The port city of Le Havre is bustling with travellers hauling suitcases and steamer trunks, all walks of life converging on this point of exit. You weave through the crowds from the train station as a trio, headed for the bright red awnings of the company sailing to the USA. Benedict and Eloise hang back as you approach the ticket window.

“Name?” the brusque man in the booth opens with a crisp American accent.

“Y/n y/l/n,” you smile politely.

“You are not on the manifest,” he sighs after a pause to scan down the paperwork, impatience colouring his tone.

“But I must be,” you frown, “I was given this here…”

You push your ticket under the window, clearly marked with today’s date.

“Fraudsters,” his economic response.

“But… they were from your company? Outside your offices in Paris? And wearing your company livery? They… They said I could bring forward my sailing date from August to today. They took my original ticket and gave me this! It looks the same!” Panic rises in your voice with each sentence, dread churning behind your ribs as you realise you have likely been duped.

“I'm sorry, ma’am, but that is not a valid ticket,” is his monotone reply.

“Oh god. What can I do? May I buy another ticket now?!?”

His responding laugh is a loud bark, “Hah! Ma’am, we are booked up for weeks in advance. There is a long line every day of people hoping for last-minute availability,” he signals to a line of weary-looking, luggage-laden folks under a makeshift shelter.

“But I….” you feel your eyes watering and dread in the pit of your stomach like you are falling down an endless chasm.

“Ma’am, please step aside; I need to ensure valid passengers can board this ship…” he warns in a tone that is wholly without sympathy.

With a weak nod, you stumble away, back towards Benedict and Eloise. As you draw closer, their faces are a picture of concern, realising something is amiss. As you tearfully recount what happened, Benedict seethes, and Eloise wraps her arm around you, looking pained.

“I’m going up there. This is unacceptable!” Benedict grits out, righteous indignation fizzing from his very being.

You have to hold out a hand to physically stop him. “It's likely no use,” you appease.

His ire deflates a fraction at your hold on his coat sleeve. “At least let me try, y/n,” he modifies after a few beats.

“Alright,” you relent, dropping your hand, “but I do not expect a different answer.”

You and Eloise cling to each other as you watch Benedict remonstrate with the same man and then a different one at the window. All the while, your stomach is in knots, equal parts fear and hope.

It's five or more minutes before Benedict returns to you, his face pinched.

“I was not successful,” he screws his mouth, looking away as if he cannot meet your eye as he says it. “They don't seem to care that criminals are posing as agents for their organisation,” he rubs his eyebrow in irritation. “I would report it to the police, but it's not their jurisdiction here, and it still does not solve our dilemma…”

“Thank you anyway…” you breathe, “for trying at least…”

There is a long silence as the three of you stand there, stupified by the conundrum before you. The chime of a clock on the harbour building breaks your thoughts.

“It's 3pm. Your sailing back to England is in less than an hour. You should go. You two leave without me,” you demure.

“NO!” they both exclaim in almost comic sibling unison.

“I’ll be fine, seriously.”

“I’m not leaving you alone here for god knows how long until there is room on a ship to America. You can’t be alone. This isn’t Paris; this is a port city. It’s definitely not safe,” Eloise rattles off, looking at you imploringly.

“She’s right,” Benedict concurs. “You were safe in Paris together before the war. You are not safe here. A beautiful young woman. You are a target for thieves or even worse. You cannot stay here alone.”

You try your hardest not to let Benedict calling you beautiful derail your whole thought train, but it’s futile. Your mind is scattered like a pile of wooden toy railway coaches.

“I... I could return to Paris?” You finally suggest after what feels like an eternity of buffering. “I could call to check for last-minute availability every morning. It’s only a couple of hours by train. I’ll be always packed and ready to go…” you argue, not as yet realising the naivety behind your own idea.

“Paris will be the first target for Hitler’s invasion,” Benedict says gravely. “It could be much worse to remain there…”

“So what am I to do? I’m damned if I do, and I’m damned if I don’t…”

“There is only one solution, and that is for us to remain here as well until you can secure passage out of the country,” Benedict shrugs.

“Agreed,” Eloise nods emphatically as you go to protest.

“There are many more sailings back to England, and tickets are easier to come by,” Benedict points out. “We can move our tickets up. At least by a few days until we can devise a plan.”

“Wait… if there are no ships to America, why don't you come to England with us?” Eloise pipes up in a lightbulb moment.

“I have nowhere I could stay…”

“Nonsense! You will stay with us at Aubrey Hall. Won’t she, Benedict?”

“Oh yes, of course. There are plenty of spare rooms,” he assures.

“Gosh, umm... Maybe? I…” you hesitate. The whiplash of the last few minutes and the generosity of their offer momentarily overwhelm you. “That's very generous of you. The problem is I don’t know for how long it would be, or even if I should. My parents only agreed to me living in Paris under the watchful eye of Solene. This… this is entirely other…”

You startle as Benedict places his hands on your shoulders, pulling your attention to his sincere expression. “Y/n, you need to worry less about what your family thinks and more about yourself - what you need and your safety. This is escaping impending war; it’s a completely different circumstance from how you arrived here. The decisions you make right now have to be selfish and unburdened by expectations. It’s easy for others to judge from the distance of safety. But look around you. This town is teeming with people clambering to leave the country before an invasion. We do what we have to in unpredictable circumstances to survive.”

“You sound like a soldier,” you murmur.

“It’s what my father was,” he replies, releasing his grip but not moving away. “As a very young man in The Great War. He was lucky to survive, being an officer away from the front lines, but he taught me many things before he died. And one was about always making the smart choice if you can see one, even if it feels uncomfortable. The smart choice here is to escape by any means necessary. We all know Hitler has his sights set on France, especially Paris, as the figurative and cultural capital of Europe. You must get out. You must come with us.” You are captivated by his hazy eyes as he speaks, your heart beating fast as his face and voice grow softer. “Please. I could not live with myself if we left you behind,” he admits in a much quieter tone, but the plea is no less impassioned.

You cannot help it. You stare up at him, transfixed. Stanley has never been so eloquent. Or indeed so invested in your well-being.

“Alright…” your hesitancy soft, “but you must let me pay you for my ticket…”

His face seems to light up at your acquiescence. “One day… maybe,” he smiles.

And so that is what he does - leaves you and Eloise ensconced in a nice bistro overlooking the harbour with a large bottle of white wine as he walks over to the ticket office for the ferry company and swaps their tickets for a few days hence and purchases an additional ticket for you, steadfastly refusing to tell you the cost for it even for many weeks hence.

While you are in the ladies' room, Eloise strikes up a conversation with a young man in uniform at the adjacent table; you fondly roll your eyes as you retake your seat and leave them be. Your gaze, however, is never far from the window, to where Benedict last left your line of sight, somehow anxious for his return. When he reappears, striding purposefully towards the cafe, your chest flutters hard, his coat swishing around his legs, his hat at an attractive slant. If there is one thing you swear you could spend a lifetime doing, it’s watching Benedict Bridgerton just… be.

“Any luck?” you ask as he arrives and doffs his hat, taking a seat on your other side, throwing an exasperated glance at his little sister and the uniformed man.

“We are set to sail Thursday,” he smiles and signals for the waiter, ordering a glass of Beaujolais. “I also stopped in the post office to call Solene. She has said we can stay as long as we need to at her sister’s cottage a few miles from town.”

“Oh, that's wonderful news!” your shoulders relax for the first time in what feels like hours. “But wait, I remember she said there is only one bedroom,” you point out. “You’ve been sleeping on our sofa for days now… you deserve a bed. I’ll take the sofa…”

“No. Also, I’m not sharing a bed with my sister,” he shudders, “she kicks in her sleep!”

“Oh, thanks. So I guess you want me to have bruised shins, then??” You laugh with gusto, the ricochet day making all your emotions heightened, seemingly bouncing from one extreme to another. Right now, a strange bubble of joy at this lighthearted exchange.

“Not at all. In fact, I’d happily share with you instead to save your legs from the abuse!”

You know it’s said in jest, the comedic relief of the moment evident on his face, but still, a shot fires in your chest at the thought of sharing a bed with him. You decide to make light of it, even as your heart quickens.

“How do I know this kicking is not a problem that runs in the family? And you’re way stronger than her!”

“You can tie me down if it would make you feel better!” he chuckles loudly.

You flush all over, the very thought so beguiling yet scandalous. And yet you cannot stop your mouth running away with you, this flirtatious banter too tasty to resist, the wine you’ve been drinking far too quickly for the last half hour loosening your lips.

“I think you would enjoy that far too much, Mr Bridgerton,” you volley back, raising an eyebrow with a giggle.

His cheeks turn the most adorable shade of pink even as his eyes dilate rapidly, a corner of his tongue flicking out to pull his bottom lip under his teeth. It makes you want to sink your teeth right there, this impulse to be so physical with someone discombobulating. You've never had such errant, feral desires for Stanley.

“You're probably right…” he rumbles quietly after a pause.

You dare to hold his gaze even though you know it’s a mistake. This nightmare of a day makes you uncaring of propriety. He looks as wild as you feel inside, a glint in his eye that is at once permission and danger.

“Theo here has been telling me all sorts of helpful information,” Eloise leans in, breaking the spell between you, a slight slur in her voice from her wine.

Theo nods to you and Benedict. On closer inspection, he appears to be in a British soldier uniform.

“I have to get back on duty,” he explains apologetically as he rises from his seat, “but I hope the information I’ve provided to your sister here will help.” He adds with a tiny salute.

You look surprised at Eloise as she just shrugs. You thought her up to her usual flirtatious banter, not researching. Benedict looks impressed too. You both, however, don’t miss the note he slips to Eloise before he takes his leave. Perhaps not purely intelligence gathering, then.

“Theo is helping process entry to Britain for foreign nationals wanting safe harbour. The numbers have spiralled since the war was declared.” She begins to explain when he is out of sight. “There is sadly a waiting list. But there are a few ways to skip the queue…

“Those being?” Benedict prompts before you can.

“Having family relatives residing in Britain already or, top of the pile, being the spouse of a British national.”

You slump your shoulders. “I have no relations there. Uncle Robert was visiting, but he was already at sea returning to America when the war was declared,” you explain, wishing he had stayed a few weeks longer.

“I wonder if we can find any paperwork forgers around?” Eloise ponders aloud.

“Eloise,” Benedict's tone is one of brotherly warning and disapproval, “we will not be taking that route.” his tone striking a chord of finality.

“But… how else can we get her into the country without bending the rules?” she exclaims at him, frustrated, gesticulating.

“I’m thinking…” Benedict grouses back, rubbing his chin and looking deep in thought.

Eloise leans back in her chair and twists her mouth into a pout. She takes a swig of wine before twisting to you and casually making a suggestion that flips your entire being.

“You could marry this one,” she jokes, shrugging and gesturing at Benedict.

Your eyes dart to Benedict and his to you. A tidal wave of a hundred different feelings crashing through you at once.

“I’ll do it…” he offers, quick and quiet.

“El, don't be ridic…” your denial, spoken over his, dies on your tongue as you process what he said.

You can't help it, you gape open-mouthed at him. As does Eloise.

“You would?” you stutter.

He nods, mien sincere, but you could swear there is more, too, a rousing intensity.

“I was joking, brother,” Eloise frowns.

“It's the only solution that guarantees her passage out of France,” he argues, “that's the most important thing here…”

“But marriage? That is such a sacrifice… I could never ask that of you…” you shake your head, even as your stomach feels like a rollercoaster.

“That's why I'm offering, so you don't have to ask,” he shrugs as if this is not a big deal. “It is not me who has to make the sacrifice. It is you who has an intended…”

Stanley.

Your face falls as you think of the consequences. Marrying Benedict, if only for escape, would wound Stanley beyond belief. Your father, both your parents, in fact, would vehemently disapprove.

“We can annul it as soon as we get to England…” he assures.

“French marriages can be annulled, brother, yes, but in France. Not in England,” Eloise pipes up, ever the font of knowledge.

“Then I will grant you an immediate divorce,” he amends.

“I can't believe you are taking me seriously,,,” Eloise mutters, but both of you seem to ignore it.

“I’d still be a divorcee, damaged goods as my father would say…” you wince at the phrase but know it to be accurate in Long Island, as much as you hate it.

“I don't know how else to help you escape, y/n,” Benedict implores, slightly alarmed.

“Keep thinking!” Eloise interjects hotly. “I won't have my poor best friend here shackled to a Bridgerton brother. She has done absolutely nothing to deserve such a sentence, however short.”

“Eloise!” you scold without thought, “don't be so rude about your brother! He's wonderful….”

You immediately flush with embarrassment as she looks at you suspiciously. You dare not even look over to the subject of your praise, but you can feel the weight of his stare.

“But umm yes, let's keep thinking…” you mumble, embarrassed, looking down and picking at your cuticles in your lap.

“I need a bloody cigarette,” Eloise pronounces, suddenly standing up, her chair scraping loudly over the tiled floor.

“Sister, you do not smoke,” Benedict frowns up at her, again with that air of elder sibling forbearance.

“Sometimes I do,” she shrugs, her tone defiant, “and this situation definitely warrants one.” She jabs her finger by her side to emphasise her opinion.

With that, she marches up to the bar and orders one but does not return to the table, shooting you both a look before heading to the wall outside and sitting alone, staring out at the horizon and taking deep draws.

You and Benedict sit in silence, heads bowed in thought for what feels like an age, only interspersed with small sips of wine.

“I honestly can't think of another way out of this mess…” Benedict sighs, breaking the hush. “But I understand it's such an enormous decision; you need time to consider it.”

You are scared by how much your heart and mind are screaming, ‘I really don't, I will marry you,’ even if your gut churns with the idea of how you will explain it to everyone. You look up, and again, those blue eyes bore into yours. Sincerity, concern, empathy, and something that looks dangerously like desire. You could get lost in that look. Forever.

“I’ll do it…” you whisper, knowing you are playing with fire… and yet yearning to be burned.

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megwritesriddles · 2 months ago

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High for This ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Mike Schmidt x F! Reader / You

Summary: Kinktober 2024 Day 10 - High Sex. Tricked into attending a party, Mike runs into Reader, his old coworker. For old time's sake, they get high together, and lowered inhibitions mixed with suppressed feelings can only lead to one thing.

Tags: High Sex, Dubious consent (only because of the drugs, they're both totally into it), P in V, Unprotected sex, Drug use (weed), Alcohol use, Softdom!Mike, Praise kink, Mike being bad at feelings, Reunion, Fluff, Friends to lovers.

Word count: 4k

Read it on ao3! | Masterlist

Authors note: Look... I've never been high so this might be super inaccurate... I did my research though!! Just felt I had to warn you!! Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Mike really didn’t want to be here. He had only dropped by Jeremiah’s place to pick up a DVD that Jeremiah had borrowed from him months ago and never bothered to return. He had even checked with Jeremiah earlier that day to see if it was cool that he dropped by. He wasn’t sure if it was sheer carelessness that Jeremiah had said he’d had nothing planned, or if he’d been duped into coming here. When he’d arrived, there’d been a suspicious amount of cars parked around. Mike should have turned around then, especially when he parked and could hear the tell-tale thumping of bass. But stupidly, he had headed inside to find a party getting started. Jeremiah, already a little tipsy and overenthusiastic, had roped him into staying. Annoyingly, he’d already told him Abby was away for the night, so didn’t have the excuse of having to get back to her.

“Man, there’s free beer, can you even afford to say no right now?” he’d chuckled, clapping Mike on the back. He’d had a point. So here he stood, in the corner of the kitchen, nursing a lukewarm beer bottle, clutching his DVD awkwardly. The party picked up around him, but every time he tried to make a break for the door, somehow Jeremiah spotted him and, without the energy to be reprimanded for his lack of social life, Mike would return to the kitchen. The music thumped in his ears from the living room, and a few people passed by him on occasion to get to the fridge. No one stopped to talk, but he didn’t mind, he didn’t know anyone here and didn’t much care to.

Until he spots a familiar figure heading for the kitchen door. He squints. Could it really be? Well, you did also work with Jeremiah at the mall, so it's far from impossible. You approach, laughing at someone on the other side of the wall, saying you’ll only be a moment. Then you turn your head and spot him too. A grin spreads over your face and he smiles back sheepishly.

“Mike!” you gasp, heading over to him. He smiles back, setting his beer down to scratch at the back of his neck nervously.

“Hey, long time no see!” He chuckles. You laugh back, giving him a side hug, cradling a drink in your free hand. Mike returns the hug awkwardly, his hand lingering on the curve of your waist just a second too long, he hopes you don’t notice. You bring the small straw in your drink to your lips, sipping.

“Where the hell have you been?”

You’d been his coworker when he’d worked at the mall. You’d worked at the information/help desk, which you always emphasised was a boring and tedious job, while he worked security. You’d met when a child had come to your desk to let you know they’d become separated from their parents. You’d called security to get someone to escort the kid and help look for their parents, Mike, only a week or two on the job at the time, was sent down. He’d immediately been a little taken with you, how tender you were assuring the kid that they’d be okay, the quirky way you’d customised your mall uniform to match your personal style, just something in the way you smiled. It hadn’t taken long to find the kid's parents, they came to your desk and you’d called him back over. You’d told him with a little smile that this happens often and that you’d probably be seeing a lot of each other. At the time, he’d just chuckled slightly and left. You hadn’t been wrong, he was surprised by the amount the two of you actually ended up working together. He liked you a lot, both platonically and… romantically? Or perhaps it was just lust. He was never good with feelings like that.

One day, he’d caught you smoking weed behind the mall on your break. You’d panicked, thinking since he was security he was going to turn you in. But he didn’t. He smoked too sometimes when he could scrape up the money, so he couldn’t judge you. It really helped him to feel less stressed, which was something he needed desperately. You’d ended up sharing your joint with him. He liked you even more. You were a good listener, something about you just made his problems feel solvable. You got high together quite a few times, just a little buzz on break behind the mall, or occasionally, when Abby was forced to stay at her aunt’s and Mike felt the pre-emptive stress for the little strops Abby would have when she got back, he’d go to your place and get high with you. Being with you had always made him feel good. You were an unapologetic person, never ashamed of yourself, something he certainly couldn’t relate to. You never judged him either.

But then he got fired. You’d texted him the day of, asking him if everything was alright, but he’d been so angry at himself and the world that he’d ignored you. Every day after that he’d debated texting, but he didn’t, and every day that passed and he didn’t text, the thought had seemed more and more daunting. So, you never spoke again. Mike hated himself for it, he’d needed you, thousands of times over the past few months he’d needed you, but he hadn’t done anything about it.

“I uh…” he didn’t know what to say. He knew, if he was more emotionally intelligent, that he would admit the truth to you, that he’d needed you, but been too dumb to contact you, but his pride was in the way. “Just… been busy,” he grumbles, grabbing his beer off of the counter again. Your eyes flicker over his face as you sip your drink, you almost look hurt and Mike cringes at himself, but can’t seem to open his mouth to make it better.

“Got a new job yet?” you ask with a smile. You’re being sweet and polite, even though he’s been a total ass. He wants to hug you again, properly this time but instead grips his beer tighter. He doesn’t want to get into the whole Freddy’s debacle with you right now so he just shrugs.

“Odd jobs here and there, I’m getting by,” he chews at his lip. You nod. “You?”

“Still at the mall, but now I’m the desk manager,” you chuckle, stirring your drink with your straw.

“Ooh, very fancy,” he smiles, genuinely happy for you. He goes silent for a moment, tense, feeling your eyes studying him.

“How are you holding up? Emotionally?” you ask, your tone suggesting that you know it’s not that well and that you also know he won’t tell you the truth.

“Better than I was,” he shrugs, picking at the label on the beer bottle, flicking a loose edge of it with his thumbnail. It’s not a lie, he’s certainly better now than he was while working at Freddy’s, and Abby is doing a whole lot better, which means he’s happier, but there’s still a lot missing from his life that he wishes was there. Like you. In what form? Mike doesn’t want to confront that. You slurp the last of your drink through the straw and then set the plastic cup down. He watches you from the corner of his eye. You look nice tonight, dressed in the quirky way you like, although everything is quirky compared to his style.

“Come with me,” you tell him and then turn, walking off without giving him the chance to contemplate. It’s probably for the best that he can’t overthink this. He downs his beer with a few big gulps, pulling a face. Then, he jogs until he catches up to you. You’re at the bottom of the stairs, smiling at him as he approaches, you turn, ascending the stairs. He shamefully watches your ass as he climbs the stairs behind you, he’s missed this view, as guilty as he feels about thinking so. You guide him into a bedroom and he raises his brows, but you head to the windowsill, cracking the window open and sitting on the ledge. He grins and shakes his head, he knows where this is going. He spots you pull out a joint as he tosses his DVD onto the side table. “Jeremiah would rather us do this in here than in his parent's room,”

“I missed you,” he finally admits as he sits across from you on the ledge, only able to do it under the guise of a joke. You give him a smile, one that tells him you see right through him.

“Who says I’m sharing?” you tease, placing it in your mouth to light it. You take a drag, blowing the smoke out of the window. He watches you, a little too intently. You pass him the joint and he mumbles a thanks, taking a drag. He tastes the sticky-sweet residue of your lipgloss, the taste igniting memories of other nights like this. He savours the taste more than he could ever admit, even to himself.

“How’d you know which one was Jeremiah’s room?” he asks, chewing his lip, fearing the answer as he passes the blunt back, glancing around the room at the various photos of his friend. You give him a smile that makes his insides uncomfortable.

“I come to these parties a lot, just happened to have been in these rooms a few times,” he studies you, trying to gauge what he wants to know.

“With someone?” he asks nervously, watching your lips wrap around the joint. You inhale and then giggle out the smoke.

“No, I like to find a quiet place to smoke alone, you’re my first,” you wink and he blushes. He knows you’re joking, but the thought of being special to you in some way makes him feel warm. You pass the joint back and forth for a while, a pleasant buzz settling over his brain. He watches you as you look out the window at the street, a little bit of the party had spilled out into the yard. “I was bummed to not hear from you,” you admit finally, turning your eyes to meet his. You don’t seem mad, just stating it as a fact. Mike swallows and nods.

“I was being an idiot, I missed you,” he mumbles. You giggle and he laughs too, glad you’re not actually upset. “I’m always an idiot huh?” he chuckles, and you just smile lazily at him. He watches you move sluggishly over to Jeremiah’s bed, lying down with a happy sigh.

“These sheets are crazy soft, come feel,” you smile over at him. He swallows, his eyes tracing over your figure lying there. He follows you onto the bed, feeling like he is sinking into a cloud as he sits down.

“Woah, you’re not joking,” he chuckles. He flops down against the pillows, feeling relaxed and a little sleepy. “I kinda wanna steal these,” he mumbles, pushing his hand into the plush material of the pillows. You’re watching him, smiling. He feels better than he has in a long time, both physically and mentally. Physically, he’s loose and relaxed, mentally, he’s with you again and you’re not mad, which feels like a blessing. Without thinking, he turns to you and pulls you into his arms, which makes you giggle again. “I’m so fucking glad you’re not mad at me,” he sighs. His head buzzes pleasantly, the smell of your perfume stronger than usual, making him moan slightly. You just giggle, holding him close.

You fall into your regular routine, even after all these months. He starts to tell you about all that’s wrong in his life, and you somehow make it all feel alright. You believe in him like no one else does, especially when you’re high. You soothe him, being realistic but kind. The only difference from normal is that he has you held in his arms as you talk. Despite being high, he knows that this is abnormal and is silently unbelievably pleased that you’re letting him hold you. It makes you feel more real, especially after all this time that he’s only been seeing you in dreams. Your skin is soft under his fingers, and your hair is a pleasant thing to fidget with. You have a similar idea, playing with the fabric of his hoodie sleeve. He likes it, he feels closer to you than ever, physically and emotionally. He vows never to ignore you again, he knows he needs this in his life. He listens as you talk about your life, feeling pleasantly calm. You seem to be doing well which makes him glad, he tells you so and you say he’s sweet. It makes him feel warmer. The two of you giggle over a funny story you tell and then go quiet, staring at each other. You smile sweetly and he returns it. He sits up to take off his hoodie, feeling warm. You watch him silently as he reveals a tight white t-shirt underneath, tossing his hoodie carelessly. He catches your eye and chuckles. “What?”

“You look good,” you smile hazily. “You been working out?” He feels his cheeks heat up a little.

“Well, lots of free time and negative energy, best thing I could do with myself,” he explains slowly, lying back down beside you, his arms wrapping back around you. Something feels a little different now, but not in a bad way, you smile at each other again.

“Well, it suits you,” you giggle. He smiles and squeezes you lightly, making you titter even louder. When your laughing dies back down again, you look up at him through your lashes, he feels the shift in your demeanour somewhere deep in his belly. “You ever made out with someone while high?” you ask quietly. He hums in amusement.

“No, I usually get high alone, or with you, I suppose. Why? Is it nice?” You giggle at him.

“Oh Mike, it’s the best, it’s just so… everything is more intense and pleasurable. A nice slow makeout session while high, perfection,” you exhale the last word, your eyes fluttering shut as you picture it. He watches you, curious and a little excited. Are you suggesting that the two of you make out? It’s been a while since he’s kissed anyone, and to kiss you…

“You wanna?” he suggests, his inhibitions lowered by the weed. He expects you to react a little, even if you were going to agree in the end. He doesn't expect you to just open your eyes and whisper a soft 'yes'. He's momentarily a little shocked, but the buzz of the weed dampens the feeling, making him chuckle instead. He pulls you a little closer, his arms tightening around your middle. "Me too," he mumbles before he leans forward and meets your lips with his own. The feeling of your soft lips against his sends a pleasant jolt through his whole body, the feeling heightened. He's hyperaware of every little movement of you against him as you come closer, your hand settling onto his neck. Your lips meld together slowly and he sighs. You were right, it really does feel good, better than any other kiss he's had before. Although, that might be down to you more than the high. His hand threads into your hair, cupping the back of your head to keep you close. You both part your mouths at the same time, the kiss becoming deeper as your tongues press against each other. The kiss is slow but all-consuming, sensual in the best ways. You both let out soft little moans. Mike's hand ventures down to gently squeeze at the flesh of your ass, making you moan louder and kiss him a little harder. He feels hazy, the only clear thing in the world right now is your body against his. He continues to knead your ass as you kiss leisurely. He gently sucks on your lower lip, the feeling of it making you squirm. You both chuckle. You tilt your head to the other side and kiss him again. Both of his hands move down to your rear, squeezing and massaging like he's always dreamed of doing. Your tongues slide slowly against each other, lips pressing together. It's blissful and you feel even higher than before because of it. The slow press of your lips to his makes you feel dizzy with lust.

"Fuck, I'm so wet," you breathe against his lips. He shivers and hums.

"Yeah baby?" he teases, leaving wet open-mouthed kisses down your neck. You tilt your head back and moan softly. He shifts his hips so they press against you, letting you know he's similarly affected by your unhurried make-out. You feel warm all over, heat pooling especially in your lower belly, each press of his lips making it worse. You reach down, flicking open the button of his jeans. His hips stutter slightly and he pulls back to look at you, pupils blown wide.

"Ever had high sex?" you suggest. He chuckles in disbelief as you slide his jeans down, giving a harsher grab to your ass.

"You little vixen," he groans jokingly as you squeeze him through his boxers. You both giggle lowly, eyes full of lust as you stare at each other. He presses his lips back to yours, kissing needily, but still nice and slow. His hands trail up, then down into the waistband of your pants. He cups your ass, moaning softly at the feeling of your bare skin. It drives him crazy to feel you like this. Then, doing what he'd intended to initially, he slides your pants down. You sluggishly kick them off, your lips not leaving his. You help him out of his boxers and he springs free, hard and eager. You giggle.

"I didn't know you were so well-endowed, Schmidt," you tease. He grins, his hand drifting to the back of your thigh, hooking your leg around his hip. You both moan softly as you press against each other.

"Fuck... you weren't lying about being wet, huh?" he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as he rocks his hips against you. His cock rubs against your clit deliciously, making you sigh and wrap your arms around him. Your lips meet again, relaxed and sloppy, his hips leisurely rolling against you. His hand slides back up to knead your rear again. "Love this perfect ass," he groans against your lips, gripping it greedily. You hum in response, feeling as he uses his grip on you to pull you even closer. Your mind is full of a lustful haze, all that matters is Mike.

"Need you inside," you mewl softly. He sucks on your bottom lip again.

"I need that too," he holds you still by your thigh, looking down, shifting until he's pressing against your entrance. You moan. He slowly and carefully rocks into you, the feeling of you so tight and warm around him making him almost dizzy with pleasure. You both pant, holding each other close, maintaining lust-filled eye contact. You tighten your leg over his hip, forcing him just a little deeper, making you whimper. "You alright baby?" he asks hazily, rubbing your back. You let out a puff of air, nodding. He kisses you again, open-mouthed and reassuring. Your eyes drift shut as he starts to gently rock against you. He groans into your mouth, gripping your thigh harder. "So perfect for me, good girl" he praises, making you moan. He pushes slowly in and then withdraws, making sure to drag delectably against your walls as he does it. You both pant needily, your fingers tightening into his shoulders. "Needed you for so long," he whispers, speeding up slightly in his movements, but still keeping it slow and gentle. You nod, burying your face into his shoulder. He holds you close, rocking softly, listening to your faint whines and moans, filling him with primal satisfaction. "That's it, let me know how it feels baby," he coaxes. You whine a little louder in response and he groans at the sound. "That's my girl," he coos, kissing your neck gently, his pace never faltering. You squirm a little, his words affecting you deeply, making you pant harder against his shoulder. The pleasure clouds your mind completely, leaving you a needy mess in his arms. He feels much the same, though he's better at keeping himself together, for you.

"M-more," you plead softly. He nods, starting to gently suckle on the skin of your neck, rocking a little faster and deeper. You let out a choked moan against his shoulder, he responds in kind, grunting with each thrust he gives you. You moan wantonly, not thinking in your haze to try and keep quiet, your body pressing itself as close as possible to him. His hand slides up and down your back mindlessly, the other holding you in place by your thigh, squeezing hard enough to leave marks. His thrusts become deeper and more powerful, making you tremble and gasp.

"Taking me so well, just let me make you feel good, doing so well baby," he coos, feeling as you're tightening around him. You whimper and he smiles, giving a particularly powerful thrust. You both whine at the feeling. All the heightened sensations build to a crescendo and you know your orgasm is rapidly approaching. He holds you still as your body tries to writhe and fucks you, more determined than ever before. Your vision goes blank as white-hot pleasure washes over you, you clench and release around his cock, trembling and whining, nails digging into him. "That's it, good girl baby, just hold on," he chokes out, speeding his thrusts up desperately, chasing his release before your overstimulation sets in. You whimper in his arms, feeling your whole body jolting with each push of his hips, squeezing around him every few seconds as you ride out your orgasm. He gasps shakily before letting out a drawn-out groan, pumping you full of his cum. You move your lips onto his and he kisses you hard, his whole body tense and shivering as he basks in the feeling you've given him, his nails scratching lightly against the skin of your back. He fucks his cum into you slowly before you're both too sensitive and he withdraws gently, making you both shiver. You feel the warm liquid sliding down onto the inside of your thighs, your head spinning slightly in the best way. He releases his death grip on your thigh, moving it down from his hip and soothing his palm over the nail marks there in an apology, not that you care about them. You melt into a puddle in his arms, letting him hold you and pet your hair. You know you need to clean yourself up, but you can't bear the thought of leaving his warm arms. He kisses down from your temple to your jaw. "That was amazing baby, you were right, never felt better," he purrs. You giggle.

"You better not disappear again after this," you mumble, holding him close. He shakes his head vehemently.

"God no, baby, I never should have disappeared in the first place, I didn't even want to. I could never do it after what we just did, I'm an ass, but not that much of an ass, okay?" he promises, kissing everywhere he can reach, your cheeks, your shoulders, your collarbones. "Plus I... was kinda hoping this meant we were dating now?" he asks sheepishly, a far cry from his more dominant self only moments ago. "I mean, I guess... maybe this was just a hookup to you, I suppose we never defined--"

"Yeah, yeah, we're dating," you chuckle sleepily. He smiles wide, pulling you on top of him. With you here, at this moment, he no longer has the feeling that something is missing in his life. You nuzzle into his neck. "Think Jeremiah will let us crash here?" you murmur, feeling blissful and exhausted.

"Oh shit! Jeremiah..." Mike's body goes tense, glancing around the room, remembering where you are. You've smoked weed in his room and now there's cum on his bedsheets. He laughs and you laugh too. "He's gonna fucking kill me,"

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xoxoxo

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daisy-dupes · 1 year ago

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read-marx-and-lenin · 2 months ago

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heyo- a friend is trying to get me to read 1984 because 'it'll totally change your worldview on government and anarchism', but i've heard some bad things about the book itself/george orwell. should i read it? is there anything similar/more theorylike i could read instead?

thank you! your blog rocks <3 <3

Go ahead and read it if you want. It's a classic entry into the genre of dystopian science fiction and it has spawned many imitators since its publication. However, if you're looking for actual theory or history, you won't find it there. I would recommend Pat Sloan's "Soviet Democracy" or Anna Louise Strong's "The Soviets Expected It" and "The Stalin Era" if you want real accounts of the Soviet Union under Stalin.

Orwell never actually visited the Soviet Union, and 1984 is based not on his own personal experience with the country but instead on Western propagandistic views of the country and his own displeasure towards the fact that during World War II, when the UK and the USSR were allies, the British press was much less keen to publish anti-Soviet works right at the same time he was trying to get Animal Farm published. You must also understand that his wife worked for the UK's Ministry of Information as a censor and Orwell himself worked at the BBC producing wartime propaganda. It is not a coincidence then that the main character of 1984, Winston Smith, is a censor and propaganda official working with the fictional "Ministry of Truth" and eventually finding himself battling against state control of information.

Ironically, after stylizing himself so much as a defender of liberty and freedom against the "totalitarianism" of the time, Orwell would write up a list of alleged subversive writers for the British Information Research Department, a secret department tasked with publishing anti-communist propaganda during the Cold War. Some of this propaganda would end up being a comic strip version of Orwell's Animal Farm. There is a significant throughline in both Animal Farm and 1984 that clearly betrays Orwell's political views. In both works, the proletariat are depicted as nothing more than idiots and sheep who follow the orders of anyone willing to give them work and are easily duped by intellectuals. In 1984, he phrases it as the proletariat being more "free" simply because they're so insignificant as to warrant no government surveillance.

In 1984, the fictional society of "Oceania" is a far cry from a dictatorship of the proletariat. The proletariat have no political power, they all live in slums and are mollified by bread and circuses. How is the building of the slums organized? Where does the money go when one buys their bread? We are not told anything about this except that the process is slow and inefficient. The story isn't interested in material concerns. The "proles" do their work, we are told, but we are never shown much more than informal labor. We don't know who is telling them to work or how they are getting paid. The "Outer Party" is supposedly the white collar "middle" class of Oceanic society, but despite the amount of focus the story has on this class, we are never shown a single Party member managing a workplace or poring over receipts. We are to believe that the proletariat are simultaneously left to their own devices and unmolested by the state, while also completely under the control of the state through invisible mechanisms that are never elaborated upon. While Winston will complain endlessly about his own quality of life, not once does a single prole gripe about their job. The cost and quality of goods come up sporadically and only to illustrate the deterioration of English society under Party rule, never to illustrate any material basis of said rule.

Even more at the periphery are the colonized peoples (although never described as such) within the war-torn areas never under the permanent control of any world power. All three of the global superpowers are said to be in a constant struggle over the control and enslavement of these super-exploited workers and the resources of their nations, which are said to make up a significant proportion of the material resources of each superpower, however at the same time they are not considered to be part of the proletariat and are dismissed as entirely disposable and unnecessary for the maintenance of any of these superpowers. To Orwell, it seems, colonialism is simply a thing the colonizers do out of habit and not a phenomenon with an actual material basis or actual material effects. In turn, the colonized are not actual people who might take umbrage with the constant conflict imposed upon them, but rather chattel that is perfectly content to be traded back and forth among the colonizers.

The importance of the middle class in society is a recurring theme in 1984. For example, the Trotsky-esque political treatise Winston reads within the story, "The Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism", begins with a twist on Marxist historical materialism - while it recognizes the role of class conflict in human history, it asserts a transhistorical narrative of the eternal existence of three separate classes within society since "Neolithic times": the upper, middle, and lower classes. It is then asserted that it is the middle and only the middle class that is ever revolutionary, and that when it appeals to the lower classes it does so only to use them as a cudgel against the upper classes and never out of a genuine concern for their wellbeing. The treatise, idealistic as it is, provides little definition of these classes. The lower classes are described as "crushed by drudgery" and in a constant state of servitude that places them incapable of achieving political consciousness, something reserved solely for the upper and middle classes. The upper class is defined simply as the "directing" class, and the middle as the "executive" class. The identity of the middle class within Oceania is made clear: they are the "Outer Party", the white collar intelligentsia and managerial class which Winston and Julia belong to. One must assume Orwell viewed himself as a member of the middle class as well. If this section of the book is at all reflective of Orwell's own views (and to be clear no part of the book refutes this outlook,) then Orwell's rejection of Marxism-Leninism is rooted in his view of the vanguard party as simply a mechanism for the intelligentsia and bureaucrats to trick the stupid proles into overthrowing the bourgeoisie, rather than as a genuine means of proletarian liberation.

The politics of the Party are entirely idealistic in nature. "Big Brother" dominates through control of ideology and speech. The goal of Ingsoc, the ruling ideology of Oceania, is to make dissent impossible through the thorough alteration of language and the removal of words which could represent ideas that are not in line with Ingsoc, a process called "Newspeak". It is explicitly stated, however, that none of this ideological control is directed towards the proletariat, which is said to make up 85% of Oceania's population. The proles are not expected to learn Newspeak, they are not monitored by the telescreens, because as is stated quite frankly in the book, "the masses never revolt of their own accord, and they never revolt merely because they are oppressed." That this line is given by the villain of the story is unimportant, because the story never refutes it.

While Winston routinely repeats his belief that "hope lies in the proles", he is consistently met with scenes that challenge his faith whenever he winds up interacting with the proletariat. His conversations with proles reveal their total lack of concern with politics or history. He hears a crowd erupt into chaos and briefly hopes it's the proletarian uprising he is waiting for, only to find it's simply a riot over consumer goods. They are more than once compared to animals. While it is said in exposition that intelligent members of the proletariat who might end up fomenting dissent are eliminated, this is never actually depicted. We don't see Winston meeting with a single intelligent and politically conscious prole. The most intelligent prole he meets turns out to be a secret member of the "Thought Police". And so, the concept remains theoretical.

Winston is depicted as an ardent materialist, desperately defending the notion of external reality against deranged idealists who believe that through control of thought, control of reality becomes possible. But the world he lives in is not material. It is fictional, of course, but more than that, the fictional world described operates on idealistic principles even from Winston's own perspective. Winston's worldview is a faith based one, appealing not to any material basis for liberation but purely to emotion. It is love and the spirit of humanity that is the basis of freedom, and material freedom springs forth from it. Anyone who thinks otherwise is merely a trickster trying to control the masses.

Orwell rejected the material basis of history because he rejected the idea of a revolution on a material basis. To him, the revolution must be an ideological one, and the problem lie not in how society and the economy are organized but in the existence of hateful "authoritarian" ideologies governing the world. He believed the material basis was already here, that industry alone was the solution to material inequality, and so we must concern ourselves now only with the idea of equality and freedom, and from an abstract and universal viewpoint to boot. It is intolerable to him that a revolution be fought against an actual enemy in the real world. The problem is not that the capitalists are in control of the means of production, the problem is that the workers are too stupid to disobey them. A real revolutionary class would spontaneously throw off its own shackles through thought alone. It doesn't matter that Orwell was a lackey and a snitch, because in his mind he was freer and smarter than everyone else.

The bravery of Winston Smith was in recognizing the existence of a material reality that lies and propaganda could never destroy even while being tortured into believing such absurd notions as "two plus two equals five". But Orwell was never tortured into any of his incorrect beliefs. His incorrect beliefs stem purely from accepting the official narrative that he was fed and refusing to investigate its veracity for himself. Orwell's writing was used as propaganda against the designated enemy of the UK throughout the Cold War, adapted countless times in the forms of radio plays, TV shows, movies, and comic books. He never made an effort to actually travel to the Soviet Union to find out if what he was told about the country was true. All the other upper middle class "left-wing" intellectuals he hung out with seemed to be just as concerned as he was with the rising tide of "totalitarianism" and the supposed excesses of the Soviet Union, so why shouldn't he agree? He was in this regard no different than the Western "socialists" of the modern day who have no shortage of vitriol towards China or North Korea. Yes, he might performatively rail against chauvinism and nationalism, but only enough to ensure that he wouldn't be seen as a conservative. He still knew in his heart that his country was surely better than those barbarous communists in the East.

Yes Orwell was sexist and homophobic, and despite his best efforts he remained plagued by racist and antisemitic attitudes, but in addition to all that his books promulgated a view of the world entirely in line with British bourgeois values, which is why they were so eagerly used as propaganda by the British government. The Nazis were bad and the Soviets were bad because they were both authoritarian, and the differences between them were negligible and unworthy of mention. The references 1984 makes to the shifting alliances in Oceania, "we are at war with Eurasia" becoming "we are at war with Eastasia" and vice-versa, are most likely allegories for the shifting alliances of Britain at the time, how they viewed the Soviets as an enemy before the war, as an ally during the war, and as an enemy again once the war was over. Orwell viewed himself as above all of this simply because his view of the Soviets never changed at any point throughout this.

#communism #socialism #leftism #anti capitalism #politics #orwell #george orwell #1984 #ask

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richarlotte · 4 months ago

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Most important steps to your glow up?

Top Tier.

Braces.

I had my braces on for 18 months, and they were the best decision of my life. I can breathe better, my jaw and chin look better, my teeth are straight, and I have no more pain. Facial harmony is everything, and mine was restored by an expert orthodontist and continued use of my retainers. Jaw surgery wasn’t reasonable or necessary, but I can’t even begin to describe the impact that dental whitening, braces, weight loss, and proper dental care work had on my face.

Electrolytes and Hydration.

I was severely dehydrated and in need of electrolytes for years and years. I thought that drinking enough water wasn’t as important as people made it seem, but my life changed when I started to do it. Life feels much less stressful now that I’m properly hydrated, and I make sure to toss a little lemon and salt in my water and drink a Gatorade or Liquid IV to get electrolytes.

Darker and Longer Hair.

I look better with hair that’s long, dark, and thick. I have alopecia, so I did a number of things to disguise my hair loss growing up, but I wear wigs now that my hair is gone. I was told to wear my hair long, dark, and straight last year, and whenever I do, people tell me that I look otherworldly. Now that I know what to do with my hair and what looks best, I’m a million times more confident about myself.

Less Dairy.

I am not lactose intolerant, but I do not need to be eating dairy in excess. I enjoy dairy, so I won’t cut it out of my diet, but I don’t need to be eating it in the amount that I did. I was bloated, always breaking out, and tired all the time, but my low energy dissipated the second I cut my dairy intake. I’m not 100% dairy-free and most likely won’t ever be, but I’m careful with the amount I consume.

Korean Contact Lenses.

Americans think that all colored contact lenses are unnatural, and American-made colored contacts are. I use Olens contacts and only use the dark shades, and they’re amazing. I find that having huge, dark, striking eyes helps me get exactly what I want, and I love the way I look when I’m wearing contacts. I use contacts to craft my look and emphasize my eyes, and I never buy or use colors that aren’t brown or black. Wearing dark contacts has reduced my need for so much bright eye makeup; they make me look friendlier, and I look better in photos.

Better Quality Makeup.

Investing in higher-quality makeup and actually learning how to apply it was crucial. Buying Hourglass, Pat McGrath, Charlotte Tilbury, MAC, and Nars was sort of essential to my makeup journey, and I look much better now that I’ve invested the time and money into learning about makeup. Dupes just don’t hold up to the real things, and I look better now that I’m spending $45 on one product instead of spending $45 on five different products to try to replicate the look.

Urea, Glutamic Acid, and Dry Brushing.

I used to have serious strawberry arms and legs, dry skin, and dark spots from body acne, but all of that has cleared up. Hyaluronic acid and body serums have nothing on this combo, and dry brushing has completely cleared up my rough skin and helped with my stretch marks. If you want skin that’s plump, hydrated, glowing, and looks healthy, then you have to exfoliate your dry and wet skin and start using this trio to care for your body.

Better Skincare Products.

I invested a lot in using fancy designer brands, but the things that helped me the most were basic, unscented, and quality. I use Paula’s Choice exfoliant, plenty of SPF 100, retinol, and a variety of Korean and American products. My facial acne is gone, my dark marks are cleared, my skin barrier is healed, my skin looks healthier, and I’m glowing. Drunk Elephant, celebrity skincare brands, and trending products didn’t do it for me; figuring out what I needed and then implementing it into my routine helped.

Creating my own aesthetic.

I won’t stop talking about The Blend because it helped me become who I am today. I wanted to create a look that would help me, and so I had to spend months solidifying my image. It took me a year to get to where I am today, but life became easier once I was able to figure out what I should be doing, what I should be saving for or investing in, and what suited me. The Blend isn’t just about style, and I had to be scientific with it at times and really work with the resources I had and what was readily accessible to me.

I can do Mid Tier next.

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