#men who do physical labour and have the bodies for that are like objectively hot but the class of men that does it for their job are not

[slicedblackolives]

my personal theory of why characters like james bond and indiana jones and batman and the line cook in bear are sexy is that that particular rogue archetype combines working class male attributes of physical violence and manual labour with a bourgeoise genteelness so middle class viewers don't have to deal with the cognitive dissonance of finding male labouring bodies hot but not wanting to fuck poor people

[comrade-meow]

‘Sex work’ advocates and the Nazi propaganda playbook

Last month Nordic Model Now! was asked to participate in a University of Exeter student debate on the proposition that “This house believes that sex work is real work.” As a group, we are ambivalent about taking part in such debates. On the one hand, they are seldom a conducive forum for understanding nuanced and complex issues – but on the other hand, if we don’t participate there is a risk that the audience won’t hear the feminist analysis of prostitution. No one else in the group was able to take part that night, so reluctantly I agreed.

From the comments on social media during the debate, it appears that most of the students were won over by the arguments of the two proponents of the proposition – even though it was clear to me that they both had powerful vested interests in a booming sex industry, that much of what they said was palpably false and much of their argument relied on ad hominem attacks on myself and the other speaker against the proposition.

I was awake much of that night wondering why the students at one of the top universities in the UK appeared to be so unable to see beyond the self-satisfied veneer of the two speakers for the proposition. By the morning I’d resolved to analyse the arguments for the proposition and place them in context, with the aim of providing some help to those coming to similar debates in the future. This article is the result.

The Nazi Manual of Propaganda

Yale professor and expert in the history of fascism, Timothy Snyder, talks of the 1924 Nazi manual of propaganda that advised finding simple slogans and repeating them over and over and framing opposition as disloyalty or worse. Many people, he says, have taken up these tactics in recent years, leading not only to an erosion of the understanding that politics should be about reasoned debate leading towards constructive and informed policy, but also to politics being viewed as a battleground between ‘friends’ and ‘enemies’.

You would need to be blind to not recognise that these tactics have become increasingly common in the UK and US in recent years, and how they have been used to manipulate the public into support for policies that are not in their best interests and that might have catastrophic consequences. Depending on the arena, dissent is framed as hatred, ‘anti-science,’ or not ‘evidence-based,’ and this acts as a powerful silencing force that shuts down critical thinking and coerces acceptance of what is often little more than hot air.

These tactics obscure who are the real beneficiaries of the propaganda – usually people who gain power or who benefit in financial or other ways from whatever is being promoted. Bizarrely, we can observe these practices on both the right and left of the political spectrum.

These tactics were on display in the University of Exeter Debating Society debate. It was by no means the first or only such debate I have taken part in or observed, and nor was it the first time that I saw those promoting the idea that ‘sex work is real work’ consciously or unconsciously using tactics from the Nazi propaganda playbook.

You don’t have to take my word for it. You can read the transcript of the debate and I’ll illustrate my claims through an analysis of the key arguments used by the two speakers for the proposition.

Jerry Barnett

The first speaker for the proposition was Jerry Barnett, who’s the author of the book, Porn Panic. He regularly writes on sex and the ‘economics of sex,’ and runs a YouTube channel called ‘Sex and Censorship.’ In other words, the sex industry indirectly provides his daily bread and butter.

After introducing himself, he defined work as: “A voluntary exchange of time or labour for money or some other payment.” He didn’t mention that this definition deviates significantly from the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition, which is based on mental or physical activity, and he didn’t explain how you can exchange time for money.

One of the key arguments against prostitution being considered normal work is that although it involves some mental and physical activity (pretending the punter’s a great guy, cleaning up afterwards, etc.) the core feature of prostitution is that he uses her body – he gropes and penetrates her. This is not about her being actively engaged in mental or physical activity but someone doing something to her.

What other work involves someone doing something to you while you lie back and endure it? The only thing that I can think of is participating in medical trials – but that’s not considered work – even though you might be paid for taking part.

So, he sneakily expanded the definition to make it easier to argue that a man penetrating your orifices is a normal form of work – although of course he didn’t mention penetration because, like most sex trade lobbyists, he buries such fundamental realities in euphemism and obfuscation.

Interestingly, he did admit that it is invariably men who are the customers (or punters as we call them) and nine or more times out of ten it is women who are being penetrated – or earning an income from ‘sex work’ as he euphemistically described it.

His arguments hinged around two key contentions: First, that ‘sex work’ is well-paid, enjoyable work that has short hours and is particularly suitable for anyone who needs flexibility. I will leave aside the questionable ethics of promoting such a skewed reality to an audience of impressionable young women and men.

Second, that opposition to ‘sex work’ is based on false statistics, the conflation of trafficking and consensual ‘sex work,’ and moralistic values from people who are anti-sex and who attack women’s rights, and refuse to “listen to sex workers who say it’s empowering.”

Most of the time, he expounded on one or other of these claims, all presented with utter conviction, while implicitly framing anyone who disagreed with him as the enemy – the enemy of women’s rights, of rational debate, of men, of more or less everything that he considers good in life.

He dismissed my arguments as “anecdotes” even though most of his were based on wishful thinking rather than hard evidence – while at the same time claiming they were “evidence-based.”

For example, I mentioned that the murder rate of women involved in prostitution is the highest of any group, including in the UK, and that where prostitution is legalised, the murder rate of women in prostitution usually remains high.

His immediate response?

“Anna is good with anecdotes but when she tries to use statistics, they don’t seem to add up at all. I think the last time I looked, the professions with the highest [murder rate] were police and fast-food delivery people who are overwhelmingly men. But yeah, the anecdotes stack up, the statistics don’t.”

I didn’t manage to respond to this until much later in the debate, when I quoted a senior police officer who, when giving evidence at a Home Affairs Select Committee inquiry in early 2016, said:

“We have had 153 murders of prostitutes since 1990, which is probably the highest group of murders in any one category, so that gives the police cause for concern.”

I didn’t have the stats for police murders at my fingertips but I looked them up later and found data that suggested there had been about 28 murders of police officers in the UK during the same period (1990-2015). So, there were more than five times as many murders of women involved in prostitution as police officers. I couldn’t find any data on fast food delivery drivers other than a few isolated press reports.

So much for his grasp on statistics. But the damage had been done.

Charlotte Rose, the other speaker for the proposition, compounded the damage by asserting more than once that there had been no murders recorded of women involved in prostitution in New Zealand, where the sex industry is fully decriminalised.

But again, this is untrue. The German women who run the Sex Industry Kills project have documented 10 murders of prostituted women in New Zealand since the sex trade was decriminalised in 2003 along with a number of attempted murders. That is a significant number given New Zealand’s small population (currently less than 5 million).

One of my key arguments was that the sex industry normalises and eroticises male dominance and one-sided sex, and feeds men’s entitlement and reduces their empathy – which are the very attitudes that underpin the current epidemic of rape, child sexual abuse, and other forms of male violence against women and children.

Jerry’s response? That there was not an epidemic of male violence against women. He based this assertion on another made-up definition centred on “a steep sustained increase” – unlike the Oxford Dictionary, which centres the definition merely on a disease being widespread.

He said that not only was there not an epidemic of male violence but that the prevalence of such violence has been on a steep decline for 50 years.

But this is not true. Research has shown that male violence against women has risen significantly in the UK since 2010 and that new forms of gender-based abuse are increasingly prevalent. Even the UN describes male violence against women as a pandemic – which is an epidemic that has spread to cover multiple countries.

I mentioned that the judge in a judicial review about Sheffield Council’s relicensing of Spearmint Rhino (a lap dancing club) had castigated the council for rejecting a large number of objections from women and community members who said that the club had made the streets less safe on the basis that these objections were nothing more than “moral values.” The judge was clear that the objections were not about morality but were issues of equality.

Jerry responded as follows:

“There was briefly the anecdote about Spearmint Rhino and that women didn’t feel safe in the area. The fact is I’ve been involved, I’ve got stripper friends who’ve been involved in these campaigns to keep the venues open and these claims are false. They come up over and over again – that the presence of a strip club in an area makes women less safe. This has been de-proved, debunked, using evidence over and over and over again. So, the idea that women don’t feel safe in the area is a different thing.

Unfortunately, if women don’t feel safe, that’s sad but then they should acquaint themselves with the facts that actually the presence of a strip club in an area does not lead to an increase in sexual violence. And yet these kinds of things are continuously claimed to make it look like this is a woman’s rights movement rather than a morality movement, which it is.”

As for his claim that the increased violence in the vicinity of lap dancing clubs and similar has been “debunked” many times, well I couldn’t find any clear evidence that supported that. Rather I found much to the contrary. The Women and Equalities Select Parliamentary Committee in its report on its inquiry into Sexual Harassment of Women and Girls in Public Places, accepted the considerable evidence that sexual entertainment venues, such as lap dancing clubs, “promote the idea that sexual objectification of women and sexual harassment commonly in those environments is lawful and acceptable.”

But that is not good enough for Jerry. He sticks to what he knows is effective, and repeats sound bites that are simply not true while dismissing solid evidence and presenting any opposition as irrational and the work of moralistic enemies.

As to a man telling women they are being irrational to fear male violence, what can I say? I am not sure anything I would like to say is publishable.

Charlotte Rose

The second speaker for the proposition was Charlotte Rose, who was wearing a t-shirt advertising Fan Baits, a new commercial sex industry advertising platform. She introduced herself as, “a former multi-award-winning escort, current radio presenter and advocate for decriminalisation of sex work.”

She went on to say:

“I just want to discuss something that may affect your moral judgement. How do you all feel when I mention people who work in abortion clinics, abattoirs, factory farmers, nuclear power station workers? To name just a few. For me I do not like it. But just because we do not like what these people do, it doesn’t give us the right to state that their work is not legitimate.”

Since when have people campaigned against factory farming or nuclear power because they didn’t approve of the people who work in those industries? Eccentrics aside, the arguments are always around the impact of those industries on the environment, human and animal health and welfare, and other wider issues – and any personal disapproval is reserved for those who, knowing the damage caused, profit from those industries.

The inclusion of abortion clinics in this list is a sneaky attempt to associate our opposition to the commercial sex industry with extreme anti-woman protestors against abortion. This is a classic example of suggesting guilt by association. For an audience of students whose average age is likely to coincide with the peak age for abortions, this is particularly reprehensible.

Charlotte then said that “until you’ve worked as a sex worker, you’ve got no right whatsoever to dictate anything against [sex work].” This is an argument that we hear repeated over and over in true propaganda playbook style, making people lose their critical faculties and the ability to say, hang on a minute, I’m entitled to have an opinion on factory farming and nuclear power and other industries that have a wide impact, why on earth can’t I have an opinion on the sex industry?

And the truth is, of course you can have such an opinion, and indeed as a concerned citizen, you should – but they don’t want you to. Because once you really look at the sex industry, it’s hard to ignore the rampant abuses and negative impacts on us all, particularly young people.

Like Jerry, Charlotte expounded on how “consensual sex work” has nothing to do with sexual abuse, exploitation and trafficking. But of course, it does. There is no separate market for trafficked women – they are on the same street corners and in the same brothels and so-called massage parlours as women who may have made some kind of choice to be there. From the outside you can’t tell what led a woman to that place – nor what is holding her there.

As we have written elsewhere, most pimping meets the international definition of human trafficking and most women involved in prostitution have one or more third party (i.e. pimp) feeding off their prostitution. And the evidence of the violence inherent in prostitution is overwhelming.

Charlotte may not be a male chauvinist pig as all the evidence suggests that Jerry is, but she was equally happy to misrepresent our arguments and frame us as hateful and dangerous. She claimed several times that we want to “delegitimise” her work. (What work? Didn’t she say she was a former sex worker?)

In an attempt to convince everyone that her work really is real work, she went into a long explanation of what it entails: dealing with emails (80 a day), text messages (120/day), phone calls (50), notifications, advertising, website SEO, updating her photos, social media and special offers, booking hotels, etc.

She then asked whether that sounded like work – which of course it does. But that was missing the whole point of the debate because she didn’t mention the core aspects of prostitution – sexual intimacy with a stranger who pays you to have his every whim and fetish met with a smile.

She claimed that “delegitimising sex work” damages her credibility and means men won’t see it as legitimate work and means she “can’t get a mortgage by writing down that I’m a sex worker.” But later when she was asked why she was against legalisation of the sex trade (she favours full decriminalisation), she said:

“Legalisation is what happens in Amsterdam, but women, or sex workers […] have to pay for a licence. So, first of all, they’ve got to give a large amount of money to be able to get a licence to give them the ability to work and be in a legitimate premise.

Number one, they cost a lot of money. Number two, their details are known so there’s no anonymity. If someone wants their business not to be known to the government, then unfortunately they won’t be able to work. So, these two massive factors are why we don’t want it to be legalised.”

But hang on a minute… Isn’t she arguing for ‘sex work’ to be considered ‘real work’?

And isn’t one of the things that distinguishes ‘real’ – or legitimate – work from scams, drug dealing and other illegal activity, that when you earn money from ‘real work,’ you fill out a tax return and inform the government about where your income comes from.

So actually it sounds like she doesn’t want it to be regular ‘real work’ after all.

She made other arguments that were equally dodgy. She claimed several times that by expressing our views, we are causing actual harm to sex workers:

“One of my morals is not to cause harm to other people. I would never use my morals to cause harm to anybody. Your moralistic view is causing harm to sex workers.”

She is talking about an industry in which women involved in it have an extremely high murder rate – almost invariably by male punters and pimps – and yet she suggests that the problem is naming and describing this reality.

I explained that our position is that nothing can make prostitution safe and so we need to reduce the amount that happens. Anything that normalizes it means it will increase – it will increase men’s demand for it and more women will be sucked in and be hurt. As her position is that prostitution should be legitimised and become a normal job, you could therefore argue that her position will cause harm – like she claims about us. However, we prefer to argue on the facts and actual evidence.

Conclusion

Judging by the comments on social media, the young audience were swept along by Charlotte’s glamorous and suave act – in the face of which our attempts to focus the debate on the depressing realities of prostitution appeared about as alluring as a school assembly address by Miss Trunchbull on a bad day.

But reality is what we must deal with. Basing public policy on wishful thinking and propaganda invented by those with powerful vested interests is a recipe for disaster. You only need to consider Brexit to understand that.

The Brexit debate was dominated by sound bites and hot air underwritten by hedge fundies and other capitalists salivating at the prospect of looser and weaker regulation of business and commerce. But large sections of the British population were swept along by the propaganda and were blind to the likely dangers. It is only now, four years later, as the actual reality of Brexit is becoming impossible to ignore that opinion polls are showing the majority turning against it and realising it is almost certainly a terrible mistake.

You can’t help wondering in this context why schools and universities are not educating students about the dangers of propaganda and how to recognise and resist it. All of us, but especially young people, need to understand how to identify vested interests, easy answers and soundbites that oversimplify complex subjects, attacks on opponents and unevidenced assertions that they are motivated by hate or worse, and to see these as red flags.

Much of life is complex and messy and inequality and abuse of power is rife. There are no easy answers. Real solutions require hard work and challenging powerful vested interests – not following them like sheep.

[valhallasubstitute]

Daddy said Stay Away from Juliet

Finan X reader

Prompt #25 – ‘I object!’ They confess at the alter

Your forced to marry after your love affair with Finan is discovered. Finan has other ideas and truths come to light.

A/N: I haven’t written Finan in a hot minute and I’ve missed him, love you anon for the request and I hope you enjoy :)

WARNINGS: Mentions of physical abuse, potentially OOC parents lmao

Tags: @flowers-in-your-hayr, @thecocchamchronicle

‘You must smile, Y/N. We will not be disgraced because of your indiscretion. Aethelwulf is a good man and you will be a good wife.’

There was no doubt that you looked beautiful; the gown was long and flowing, the embroidery was intricate, the design reminiscent of the flowers that grew on your family’s estate. The veil that covered your face smelled of lavender, its softness tickled your nose, but it did not bring a smile to your lips.

You couldn’t think of anything that would make you smile, not now, not ever again.

Your heart ached as you walked towards the church. Every nerve in your body screaming at you to fight this, but the sting of your fathers’ backhand was still fresh in your memory. You had stopped crying then, your pleading words dying in your throat and your clenched fists fell into loose palms and your heart resigned itself to hopelessness.

Your family’s disgrace came in the shape of broad shoulders, gentle eyes and an Irish accent. It hadn’t taken you long to fall for him and let him fall into your bed. Uhtred had been sent to help your father and his Dane problem. It had started innocently enough, a laugh exchanged here and there, fingers grazing as you handed him ale, butterflies, and blush stained cheeks. It was like you had spent your whole life underwater, drowning in expectation and duty, but once you had met Finan you finally broke the surface. His love was the air in your lungs and the world was yours.

You had thought you had a chance of convincing your father that he was a suitable match – he was of noble birth, respected as a warrior and he carried a cross on his chest. The night Finan had told you he loved you was the night you were discovered; tangled in each other’s limbs, giving an entirely new meaning to praising God.  

Finan had told you the God had put you in his life as a reward, he had suffered so much in the past but there you were, a vision of beauty and goodness, staring at him like he was the man he had always  wanted to be. How could the same God give you such a man, such a love and then have you thrust into the arms of another?

Aethelwulf was not an unkind man, nor was he an unattractive one but he didn’t make you feel safe while thrilling you at the same time. He was neither tall nor short, not outspoken or quiet, not affectionate but neither was he unloving. He was a man of God in the way he prayed at mass and in the same way he would have a mistress within a year. He would be a father to the sons you bore and an owner of the daughters that followed. You would be taken care of but never satisfied.

That was to be your union.

The chapel was packed, while the preparation was rushed your community was overjoy with the notion of having something to celebrate.  Children littered the aisle with flower petals and the groom’s family patted themselves on the back for finding such an agreeable match, all while your family let out a collective breath, their reputation no longer pending.

The veil that covered your face was as light as dawn, but it felt suffocating, each breath you took was laboured with effort. As you passed by your mother hissed for you to smile, her eyes filled with quiet urgency and fear, like the village folk were a second away from realising that a scandal stood before them dressed as a bride.

By the time you reached the alter tears were already threatening to spill, your husband none the wiser as he removed the fabric, you watched him look at you completely unseeing.  The words of the priest were lost on you, you could only stare ahead with vacant eyes as your life was given away in the name of holy sacrament and hypocrisy.

The ceremony had been going on for too long but you willed time to slow down, any sort of distraction would be welcome; a passing bird, a stumble of words, the groom to drop dead… but no such luck. You were so deep in your subconsciousness that you nearly didn’t hear the shout from outside, it reeled you back to present in enough time to fully process the crash that followed. You turned when you watched the priests face twist in horror, the wooded doors of the church being thrown open with such force that you were sure they had splintered.

It took you a moment to register Finan standing there with a heaving chest and eyes set ablaze. You watched as your mother burst into tears, and your father reach for where his sword would be if he wasn’t on holy ground. Aethelwulf wrapped his hand around your wrist as you stepped forward, halting your movements.

‘You’ll do well to take yer hand off her.’ Finan’s voice was rough and deep and it echoed in the silence. You felt it vibrate through you, restarting your heart and drawing you in.

‘What claim do you have to this woman?’ What would have been your father in law stepped into the aisle, curiosity and concern evident in his tone.

‘She is not an object to own.’ Finan took a step forward, anger edging its way into his voice, his stance screamed of displeasure, his eyes flicking between your face and Aethelwulf’s hand still wrapped around your wrist.

‘You have brought nothing but pain into my home, you-’ Your father spoke through clenched teeth, his hands flexing with the effort of restraint.

‘Pain? Do you not see your daughters face?’ The Irishman’s laugh was humourless, but the statement had made its impact. You could feel the towns people’s eyes fall onto you, their scrutiny burning into you.

‘You should not be here.’ Chirps of agreement bounced off the walls, men were beginning to rise from their seats, the priest muttering a prayer to rid this place of the devil.

‘I have every right to be here! Your daughter and I are bound Lord, not by duty or tradition but by love. Jesus, I have loved her since the day I rode into this godforsaken place but your arrogance and piety blind you all to the fact that she returns the feeling!’

‘You will leave, this insolence will not be tolerated- ‘Your mother sounded shaken, tears still wet on her cheeks, but her eyes spoke of fury. Your own cheeks were stained too, but outrage was the cause.

‘I will not tolerate you forcing her to marry, not while she carries my child!’

The church fell silent once more, a small gasp leaving your mothers mouth.  It was true, Finan’s bastard grew within you and it was the cause of your rushed union, your parents hoping that the child would pass for Aethelwulf’s. You had told Finan via a well-paid messenger the news in a last-ditch attempt to get him to stay but he had already left with his Lord.

Aethelwulf’s grip began to loosen as the words settled and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips as Finan looked at you. His smile was a wary one, still on edge in the church filled with your wedding party.

Your feet carried you to him without a second thought but as you reached him your fathers voice stopped you one final time.

‘If you go with him, you will lose your family and your home!’

‘I have already began making a new one with him, father.’

You left the church, your wedding gown flowing behind you in haste.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The ride to Coccham and away from your old home was filled with loving words and gentle touches. You didn’t have time to collect any of your belongings before you fled, as you pressed your back closer into his chest the reality dawned on you. You laughed you felt Finan bring his lips to your ear, you could hear the smile in his voice.

‘What amuses you my love?’ One of his hands held the reins, the other caressed your stomach absentmindedly.

‘The only thing in this world that belongs to me is this wedding dress. A wedding dress for a wedding that didn’t happen. I think it’s rather ironic.’

‘You could still have a wedding today, Y/N. I know an Abbess who happens to hold me in very high regard.’

[xathia-89]

A Kimono as a work of art

Tagging: @plumpblueberry​ because it’s Yoshimoto. And @thequeenshuntress​ because she proofed for me. NSFW. 

The castle was brimming with life. Maids were everywhere, and merchants had been bringing goods to the kitchens all day as I helped one of the girls to carry a crate of sake out to the hall. Kenshin had declared an enormous banquet to take place, though he refused even to tell Sasuke what the reasoning behind it was. Everyone was getting excited since all of the servants and staff were invited to this one. Some retainers had grumbled initially at the revelation until the sharp end of Kenshin’s sword convinced them otherwise as all of the girls around the kitchens were giggling and gossiping about what to wear. 

“Lady Natsuki!” One of the maids came rushing over with the biggest smile on her face. “Lord Yoshimoto has sent you a present, and it’s waiting in your room. He said you would be needing private use of the baths before tonight and would need assistance to get ready,” the young girl was gushing, clearly enamoured with the beautiful man. She wasn’t even waiting for my response, grabbing me by the hand the second the crate was placed on the floor and dragging me out to the privacy of the bathing area. 

I hadn’t had a chance to stop and think for a few days, not that I had minded very much when it was evident how much the rest of the castle was looking forward to the grandness of tonight. I was shoved into the bathing area without a lot of grace, grinning to myself as I took the opportunity to have a bath without Shingen trying to ‘help’ for once. 

It was peaceful, the faint sounds of the bustling castle in the background as I let my muscles begin to relax under the heated water. I hadn’t realised how much of a sweat I had worked up today, and it was more than a little refreshing to wash the chores away before I decided to clamber out. One of Yoshimoto’s bathing robes had been left out for my use before I recalled the instruction to return to our chambers afterwards. 

What I hadn’t been expecting was the most beautiful kimono that I had ever seen in the middle of our room. It was exquisite, and perfect in every way possible, and there was not any chance in hell that I would do it justice. I was searching through all of our storage areas where my clothing was kept, only to find it all devoid of any other options.

“Lady Natsuki?” One of the maids stuck her head in and had plenty of things with her to deal with my hair as well. “Oh my,” she admired, “Lord Yoshimoto has beautiful taste,” she complimented before turning to me with a smile. “I wondered why all of your kimonos were in the servant’s quarters,” she laughed. 

“I can’t do that kimono justice!” I weakly argued before I found the young woman whistling for the attention of two others who were nearby, and found myself forcibly dressed in the luxurious material. 

My arguing had meant everything was delayed, of course, and the banquet had started without me. The boys were already tucking into sake and platters of food before the maids insisted on making a fuss of me to enter. I was flushing red as the whole hall was gazing at me after the doors were slid open, and noticed that even Yukimura was more than a little slack-jawed to see me in such finery. 

Shingen beat Yoshimoto to greet me, much to the annoyance of the Imagawa Lord. He looked prepared to go to war with his own family as Takeda was ungracefully shoved to the side for him to affectionately kiss the back of my hand in greeting. 

“You look beautiful,” Yoshimoto smiled. 

“You had all of my clothing removed,” I retorted, trying to keep the smile off my face as he was regarding me like a piece of art. I was failing miserably of course as Yoshimoto spun me around for a look. 

“I know you,” he shrugged, before sitting down and patting the seat next to him. 

Everyone was in high spirits, the sake flowing freely, and the food circulating well. The staff were able to taste more than just their own fruits of labour, as Kenshin had made it more than a little apparent that status made no difference at the banquet. For which, he was gathering many female admirers as he would pour for anyone able to stop his blade or convince him with words that there were more dangerous things about. I also didn’t realise how popular Sasuke and Yukimura were, especially when the two of them together it became quite apparent there was little in the way of natural charm and they both needed a female touch to their lives from the way the girls were fawning over them. 

Then I seemed to have Shingen’s attention. 

Yoshimoto had to leave me to assist with surgically removing Kenshin from his sword against his retainer, which the resident flirt took as an opening to chat me up. 

“You are a goddess among men tonight, we are not worthy of your presence,” he smiled as I sipped at my sake, raising an eyebrow in question at the man. Yoshimoto was usually stopping him before there was the slightest of chances, but here I was fending for myself as I decided to see what he would do if I didn’t reply. He inched closer, leaning forward to take advantage of the fact that the room was mostly looking the other way. “An angel that requires the touch to make her sing maybe?” He chuckled. “I’m sure I could make your singing more than a little heavenly,” he offered as I refilled my cup. “Your blushing cheeks say more than your silence, princess,” he shuffled closer. “You make that kimono look like a work of art, but I am willing to bet that you are at your most beautiful without any material.” 

There was no warning. A rib iron fan was stabbed into the mats and physically separating Shingen from me, a heated glare from molten eyes before my wrist was grabbed. I was hauled to my feet; the weapon yanked back before I found myself being escorted out of the hall. 

“I told you to rebuke him,” Yoshimoto was boiling, throwing his arms around my waist before kissing me heatedly. It was easy to forget everything when his lips were involved, including that we weren’t in private yet. His fingers were nearly as magical, already pulling on the collar of my kimono to merely touch me as my knees were already threatening to buckle under me. A moan escaped before I could stop it as his lips were tasting my throat, my body arching into his touches before the warlord abruptly pulled back. “Not here, you deserve to be worshipped in private,” he was telling himself off as he adjusted the fabrics to ensure nothing was showing to anyone who didn’t deserve to look. 

I was struggling to keep my body working. I was sure it wasn’t usually this far to our room from the hall, but then again I had recently taken to sake drinking competitions with Kenshin and would generally be passing out in the lobby before Yoshimoto would carry me back to our room with complications arising commonly. But all I could feel was the heat from the path his lips had been taking over my skin. The fabric had been feeling like silk against my skin until his touch had made everything I was wearing unbearable. The air around us would be too much as we finally came to our room. 

Kenshin had given us quarters far enough away from everyone else, apparently, we were frequently disturbing him when it came to Yoshimoto’s thorough explorations as the door shut behind us. His touch was burning me up; I needed to feel his as Yoshimoto refused to rush anything. He was an expert in undoing clothing, though he always managed to make it look too sexy and beautiful to be anything aside from art as he nipped at my lower lip in reprimand. He knew when I was going to object to his slow pace, my obi sash falling like a waterfall of silks to the floor. It was my main line of defence against him gone before I was already pulling on his clothing to remove the offensive materials between us. 

His slender fingers were cradling the back of my head, keeping me close as I could feel his skin heating against mine. One large hand slowly making its way down my spine. His tongue was making sure I was lost to his touch, playing me like his musical instrument before lowering me onto our shared futon. He refused to allow me any shame, covering up at the moment was a reflex habit of mine, embarrassed to be studied akin to artwork as his fingers glided from my back to my stomach. Any distance between us was too much as he reluctantly pulled back from my lips. 

I was already a hot mess, a whine escaping my throat at the loss of contact before his expression told me to be quiet. He was studying me, admiring me in a way that I could only describe as primal. 

“Such beauty,” he murmured, tracing a finger down my stomach before his glassy gaze locked into my eyes. A crafty smile, lowering his lips to my skin as he traced over my folds with the tips of his fingers. “I will ensure that even that horrendous crude of a flirt knows you are mine with your cries tonight,” he promised before his tongue found one of my nipples. My body was on fire; his other hand was caressing and teasing my breast that wasn’t under attack by his tongue, while his fingers curled in me deeply. Every breath he took was like watching an artist create, his devotion to his movements like a parent teaching a child as I felt my body coiling tighter around his ministrations. 

“Yoshimoto,” I breathed, barely able to do anything except grinding my hips into his hand as his mouth and fingers swapped sides. 

“I want to hear you,” he murmured, rolling my nipple between his teeth as his fingers began to thrust faster into me. “Sing for me, my beautiful bird,” he continued, a heavy-lidded gaze the only thing missing as my first orgasm was already wreaking havoc. 

I didn’t know where the sheets went as the night passed into dawn. I had spotted the texts that Shingen was ‘helpfully’ leaving strewn about, and I knew most of what we had done wasn’t covered in those books. Even after a night of exertion hadn’t put a hair out of place on Yoshimoto, and I wasn’t allowed to leave his arms as I was coming down from my latest high. He had cum in me more than a few times; the man had plenty of stamina as he barely needed any recovery time. His lips were lazily kissing at my bared shoulders and neck, and the only thing I was allowed to wear was him. His arms were firmly around my waist, keeping me where he wanted as the song of the dawn breaking the silence of the outside world. I was pretty sure that there had been a few times when I would have been heard throughout the castle grounds, and even though Yoshimoto was usually not feeling like he should ‘marr my skin’, he had also seen fit to leave some territorial love bites on my neck that would be seen regardless of what kimono I wore. 

“We should sleep,” I couldn’t help but shuffle, turning around in his arms to try and get comfortable for the task. 

“I suppose it would be rude to keep you up after all your hard work,” Yoshimoto smirk was tempting, and irresistible as I kissed him softly. “Stay there, I’m only getting the sheets because your naked body is for my gaze alone,” he frowned, realising the same thing I had. 

He made swans look ungraceful and clumsy as I watched him from our bed. He knew exactly where to look for what he wanted, before returning swiftly to his spot before the futon had time to cool. The clean sheet had been thrown over me, before he pulled it tightly behind him, not giving me a chance to pull away from his body. His arms were snuggly around my waist again, keeping me flush against him before his lips brushed against my forehead. 

“I love you,” my eyes were getting too heavy to fight and keep them open. 

“I love you too,” he nuzzled, sleep pulling us both under. 

[mg-bsl381]

Purity

Recently I have been struggling to write anything and getting this finished was a massive effort.

One of the things I love most about Shelagh and Patrick’s relationship is how it unfolded with so much respect and integrity. This story explores that idea.

This is for @snoopctm for her unfailing and diligent support and encouragement.  Thank you.

I hope you like it.

Purity

November 1957

It was her voice that first awakened his grief crushed senses.  Although he didn’t know it was her voice at the time.  

It had been a bitterly cold night and Sister Julienne’s bicycle had a puncture, so he had offered the nun a lift to save her from the long cold walk home.  The labour they had both attended had been long and arduous but thankfully the outcome was successful.  It was almost early morning but although Patrick was tired, it was hunger that was his primary feeling.  Sister Julienne ushered him into Nonnatus and alerted Nurse Franklin who was next on call that she had returned.  At that moment Patrick’s stomach growled very loudly.  Nurse Franklin quickly suppressed a giggle and offered him a cup of tea and some toast, correctly assuming that he had missed his dinner the previous evening.  Sister Julienne excused herself, needing to clean her instruments before chapel.

The tea was hot and the toast filled the gaping hole in his stomach.  He thanked Nurse Franklin and paused for a moment as he heard singing echoing down the corridor.  The voice was high and clear with a purity that soothed his aching spirit.  There was something about that voice that seemed not to belong to the world of the East End but transcended far beyond the earth.  The shrill ringing of the Nonnatus telephone shattered the peace that the singing had given him.  He waited long enough to find out if he was likely to be needed but left Nurse Franklin with instructions to call him if things didn’t go as expected.  

The coldness of the hour before dawn hit him as he walked down the steps and back to his car.  He was grateful that Timothy was at Granny Parker’s tonight but a void of emptiness filled the flat.  He collapsed into bed half-dressed and fell asleep almost as his head hit the pillow.  A pure clear voice threaded through his dreams and his sleep although brief was peaceful.

November 1958

Patrick now knew who owned the pure high voice that had soothed his dreams for many months.  The voice had belonged to Sister Bernadette but now it belonged to Shelagh.  His life had love once more and he felt so alive.  There had been months of uncertainty following Sister Bernadette’s diagnosis of TB but she had left the Order and had now agreed to be his wife.  It was not only her voice that soothed him but the whole of her being.   Her very presence soothed him.  It had been less than a month since she left the sanatorium but he already felt the changes in his life in those few short weeks.

Tonight however, Shelagh was agitated.  She seemed restless and out of sorts and something was clearly troubling her.  She tried to keep up the pretence of normality but once Timothy was in bed, her edginess ratcheted up a notch.  Patrick gently took hold of Shelagh’s hand and encouraged her to tell him what was troubling her.  She tried to brush him off saying it was nothing for him to worry about but he gently persisted.

Shelagh had been walking around Poplar and buying a few bits and bobs in the market when she heard a comment about her.  The voice was deliberately loud so that it would be audible to her.  The speaker voiced accusations about her that Shelagh was horrified by.  To have one’s character besmirched in such a blatant manner was shocking to her.  Patrick asked her what form these comments had taken and Shelagh went white at the prospect of describing them to him.  

So Patrick himself retold some of the things that had assailed his ears since news of their relationship had broken in Poplar.  He left out some of the choicest comments he’d heard while attending a patient in a pub.  It was the same innuendo and speculation for both of them.  Their relationship was being pawed over like a gossip rag and he abhorred it.

Patrick knew exactly what hadn’t happened between them until Shelagh left the Order.  The only digression had been his kiss to her hand after the three legged race.  It was a moment he could only half regret because it came with it the revelation that their love was shared.  In worldly terms it was an innocent gesture but both of them knew that she was not of the world at that moment and he had overstepped a line between propriety and desire.

There had been no displays of passion.  No fervent kisses in the darkened alleys around Poplar.  No physical contact at all apart from a kiss to her hand.  Not even his fingers on her skin when he placed his stethoscope.  There might have been a momentary brush of their fingers when he handed her her suitcase outside the sanatorium but that might have been wishful thinking on his part heightened by their imminent parting.

He knew why the talk was rife around the streets and tenements of Poplar.  It was something out of the daily humdrum of existence and exciting.  It was exciting for him and Shelagh too but he wondered about the need to turn something precious and beautiful into something sordid.

The talk of what might have happened while Sister Bernadette was in the Order was the worst.  Patrick was a man who worked closely with women and respected them.  They were not objects to fulfil his desires.  The talk about habits and being respectable in the habit but behind closed doors getting up to all sorts of things nauseated him.  The lack of respect for Sister Bernadette was appalling to him.  She was someone who had selflessly looked after these people for years and to suggest that she had been behaving in such a manner saddened him.  He knew it was about him too but there was always that double standard where rumours about illicit relations between men and women were concerned.

He knew the gossip would eventually die down and he reassured Shelagh that the people who knew her wouldn’t think like that.  Shelagh had shaken her head sadly and hoped he was right.

The gossip took far longer to disappear than he had imagined and finally petered out in the early months of 1959 when it became clear due to Shelagh’s reed slim body that she was not expecting.  By the time they eventually married Poplar was fully behind their fairytale romance.  

November 1959

Once they were married Patrick realised that purity was not simply a bodily thing.  It was a state of the heart and the mind too.  It was only after their reconciliation and the arrival of Angela that he fully understood the pain Shelagh had endured during their estrangement.  Shelagh hated lies and falsehood.  Secrets were something she struggled with because they came with an element of deception.  Openness and honesty were the values that upheld her life and he was learning the benefit of her way of doing things.  He felt so much freer now he was not trapped by the burden of silence his past had held over him for so many years.

Patrick knew how much Shelagh had struggled with her feelings when she felt unable to express them.  She had needed to suppress her feelings for him while she was still in the Order and it had caused her much distress.  

June 1962

One evening during one of Patrick’s visits to her in St Cuthbert’s, Shelagh related to him the tale of the mothers in the maternity home who had been speculating whether she was in the family way.  Although Shelagh loathed idle gossip and was appalled at the idea that they were placing bets, her excitement about her condition had overruled her.

A part of him would always regret that moment of rashness in the parish hall kitchen.  He knew he should not have behaved in such a way towards one of the Sisters.  To him however, she was not just one of the Sisters, she was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.  His kiss to her hand had revealed his heart to her and she had responded in the only way she could at the time.  He understood that her heart was not able to be shared with another person but if it was it belonged to him.  

It was not the habit that attracted him to her.  It was the woman who wore it.   The purity of her voice was the outpouring of her spirit and that was what drew her to him.  He loved Shelagh in a way that was so pure and he could not ever envisage any of the slanderous accusations that had whirled around Poplar happening between them.  It was unthinkable to him.  Only when they were married did he allow his desires expression.

Patrick knew that integrity and honesty ran as deeply within Shelagh as her love for him and her faith in God.  They were part of what made Shelagh who she was.  

[maximumslogandensity]

FASHION -- Do you not recognise me? DEATH -- You must know that I have bad sight, and am without spectacles. The English make none to suit me; and if they did, I should not know where to put them. FASHION -- I am Fashion, your sister. DEATH -- My sister? FASHION -- Yes. Do you not remember we are both born of Decay? DEATH -- As if I, who am the chief enemy of Memory, should recollect it! FASHION -- But I do. I know also that we both equally profit by the incessant change and destruction of things here below, although you do so in one way, and I in another. DEATH -- Unless you are speaking to yourself, or to some one inside your throat, raise your voice, and pronounce your words more distinctly. If you go mumbling between your teeth with that thin spider-voice of yours, I shall never understand you; because you ought to know that my hearing serves me no better than my sight. FASHION -- Although it be contrary to custom, for in France they do not speak to be heard, yet, since we are sisters, I will speak as you wish, for we can dispense with ceremony between ourselves. I say then that our common nature and custom is to incessantly renew the world. You attack the life of man, and overthrow all people and nations from beginning to end; whereas I content myself for the most part with influencing beards, head-dresses, costumes, furniture, houses, and the like. It is true, I do some things comparable to your supreme action. I pierce ears, lips, and noses, and cause them to be torn by the ornaments I suspend from them. I impress men's skin with hot iron stamps, under the pretence of adornment. I compress the heads of children with tight bandages and other contrivances; and make it customary for all men of a country to have heads of the same shape, as in parts of America and Asia. I torture and cripple people with small shoes. I stifle women with stays so tight, that their eyes start from their heads; and I play a thousand similar pranks. I also frequently persuade and force men of refinement to bear daily numberless fatigues and discomforts, and often real sufferings; and some even die gloriously for love of me. I will say nothing of the headaches, colds, inflammations of all kinds, fevers -- daily, tertian, and quartan -- which men gain by their obedience to me. They are content to shiver with cold, or melt with heat, simply because it is my will that they cover their shoulders with wool, and their breasts with cotton. In fact, they do everything in my way, regardless of their own injury. [...] I have already mentioned some of my labours which are a source of profit to you. But they are trifling in comparison with those of which I will now tell you. Little by little, and especially in modern times, I have brought into disuse and discredit those exertions and exercises which promote bodily health; and have substituted numberless others which enfeeble the body in a thousand ways, and shorten life. Besides, I have introduced customs and manners, which render existence a thing more dead than alive, whether regarded from a physical or mental point of view; so that this century may be aptly termed the century of death. And whereas formerly you had no other possessions except graves and vaults, where you sowed bones and dust, which are but a barren seed, now you have fine landed properties, and people who are a sort of freehold possession of yours as soon as they are born, though not then claimed by you. And more, you, who used formerly to be hated and vituperated, are in the present day, thanks to me, valued and lauded by all men of genius. Such an one prefers you to life itself, and holds you in such high esteem that he invokes you, and looks to you as his greatest hope. But this is not all. I perceived that men had some vague idea of an after-life, which they called immortality. They imagined they lived in the memory of their fellows, and this remembrance they sought after eagerly. Of course this was in reality mere fancy, since what could it matter to them when dead, that they lived in the minds of men? As well might they dread contamination in the grave! Yet, fearing lest this chimera might be prejudicial to you, in seeming to diminish your honour and reputation, I have abolished the fashion of seeking immortality, and its concession, even when merited. So that now, whoever dies may assure himself that he is dead altogether, and that every bit of him goes into the ground, just as a little fish is swallowed, bones and all. These important things my love for you has prompted me to effect. I have also succeeded in my endeavour to increase your power on earth. I am more than ever desirous of continuing this work. Indeed, my object in seeking you to-day was to make a proposal that for the future we should not separate, but jointly might scheme and execute for the furtherance of our respective designs.

Leopardi, “Dialogue Between Fashion and Death”

What a power couple!

Thanks Maff.

30/1/20