#I store it where i store my rage

[historicalclaptrap]

Yep, Ive worked healthcare (as a care assistant and then a nurse) for years, and in my line of work the VAST majority WOULD absolutely work you to dangerous limits or in unsafe situations when they can get away with it. (Trigger warning for violence and systemic medical neglect)

Ive had bosses bully me into tears to come into work without vital kit (my glasses- im dangerously short sighted) after it was broken after being assaulted by a patient the previous day. I've had colleagues who were worked so hard that they made critical errors and lost the tips of their fingers in the hoist- and then were bullied into coming back before they were ready. Ive even had bosses who worked their staff into the ground whilst failing to do the most basic of risk assessments - leaving staff having to manually lift patients into bed, rather than hoist them, or on one notable occassion accepting a guy who was a massive violence and aggression risk into a care home where none of the staff had V+A training or personal alarms (bless him, he was the sweetest man, but he was an ex firefighter with dementia and would fight the staff if he thought there was a fire elsewhere in the neighboughood). They knew he wasnt appropriate- he was serriously assaulting staff nightly for over a month- but did nothing untill he blinded a nurse working that night.

The sad reality is that the same entitled attitude you find in abusive partners and parents is found ALL OVER THE PLACE in bosses. The number who think you 'owe' them for giving you a job, who think your 'choice' to work there removes your right to complain. I remember finally getting a good boss after years of working for bad ones, and it was literally like id left an abusive relationship. I was on tenterhooks all the time, overly appologetic at sometimes, and massively brittal at others. There is genuinely so much abusive behaviour in the work place that we seem to just be expected to put up with

(And in contrast- a good boss in my line of work can save lives! Ask me and maybe ill tell u about some)

I love care work, genuinly adore it- my patients are the best part of my day, but FUCK bad bosses man.

Also, join a union. And look out for your colleagues on a day to day basis- sometimes youre all each other has got xx

"It doesn't help your credibility to exaggerate, most employers wouldn't literally work you to death" like, I used to work in distribution. If booking a truck driver for back to back shifts until they fall asleep at the wheel, crash, and die counts as being worked to death, I have personally met employers who've worked employees to death and gotten away with a slap on the wrist. It may not be universal, but it's a hell of a lot more common than a lot of us would prefer to think.

[m00ngbin]

Every time I see an out of state license plate on the back of the car that's causing ridiculous amounts of traffic in my town I go ballistic very quietly

[turtlemagnum]

god, i suck at mario 2. i'm disparaging my legacy.... seriously, how the fuck have i beaten the lost levels without save states but can't get past 1-3 in american mario 2???? why am i not instantly good at a game i've never really played, god!!!! my mother would be disappointed in me

post writing the tags turtle here: i started rambling about my childhood made the tags longer than the actual post and don't feel like putting them onto the actual post because that'd be too much work and i'm feeling lazy. read em if you want personal bullshit! or don't. i'm not care

[teenagefeeling]

not skinny people getting butthurt in the notes on that last rb come on guys 😭😭 sooooo sensitive lmfao shut up

[opens-up-4-nobody]

I desperately need to be a scene kid for Halloween this year

[snekdood]

idk who needs to hear this but growing native plants is not hard at all, at all

[b1rdbr41n]

WOOO FINALLY DONE THIS THING

[bloodyarson]

not to derail but i think the reason why american english is so easy to learn and to speak for a lot of people is exactly because correct enunciation doesn't matter one bit really. as long as you make a noise that has the right vowels and kinda similar consonants people will understand what you're saying 90% of the time. and so i think, other than imperialism of course, this is one of the reasons why english is everyone in the world's "common tongue" now. even with a really thick accent english is still understandable, way more than most other majorly spoken languages. i mean, just fucking take a listen to french! or don't actually unless you want your ears to start bleeding.

so yeah in conclusion i think the reason why english is the language everyone learns and communicates in is because of this specific lack of a need to properly pronounce things, making it so much easier than most other languages for non native speakers. :)

americans be like i’m looking at myself in the meer

[foldingfittedsheets]

I’ve been fired exactly once in my life. In my early twenties I was working at a pizza place. The pizzas were artisanal, thin crust and personal. They’re a huge chain now but when I first started the company was in its infancy. It was the wild west of management, and the core investors would frequently stop by to check on things. One of these people was this round little man with rage issues. A knock off Danny Devito with no charisma at all.

His favorite thing to do was to come in on a Friday or Saturday night. We'd be at our stations: taking orders, making pizza, manning the oven, finishing orders off, running the cash register. He'd shove his way onto the line and start rearranging people. "You, get off orders and work the cash register, you come over and make the pizzas!" With a line of customers snaking out the door he'd throw off all our grooves and rattle us.

Then, inevitably, a mistake would happen.

When it did he'd call the person over and say, "Hey c'mere. You're fired." Just like that. No inflection, just a flat "You're fired." It was absolutely a power kink, and because of his involvement the average turn over was three months. You were a veteran at five months.

One night there was only three of us manning the front. I took an order than went to the cash register to ring them out before I made the pizza. This horrible man watched that then called me into the back. I didn't know if I was about to be fired. But I wasn't. In fact, he had one other move besides firing people. He yelled.

In the back he absolutely lost his mind screaming at me for being on the cash register. I'm talking veins popping, spit flying, red with rage, this man just started bellowing nonsensically about where I should be and how I was just such a failure. It was truly like his brain had shut off, nothing he was saying even made sense. I stood there in the face of this tirade for a minute and then set a record for being the first person to ever cut him short by bursting into tears.

He instantly stopped yelling and it was like Jekyll and Hyde. He was remorseful and consoling, deeply embarrassed by my display of emotion. All my male coworkers just took the abuse but faced with my weeping he about faced and instantly backed off. I went outside to cry and when I came back in he pretended it had never happened.

That was the state of things. The investors knew they desperately needed to keep this man out of the stores, but they couldn't just give him the boot. They needed to move him aside and fill his position with someone. The store manager was this lovely woman who had hired me on the spot at my interview. The entire staff adored her. She was the best fit to get this roided out investor out of the stores for good.

Her replacement was this man called Anthony. He was instantly loathed by the entire staff. Condescending, critical, and lazy he started off his reign by letting go a core lead who "back talked." He spent a whole morning berating the opening crew because the closing crew (who had sold 100 more pizzas than we were even supposed to have on hand) had forgotten to windex the doors. He left the entire crew to close without him while he flirted with a girl who wasn't his pregnant girlfriend. He hired his roommate to replace the lead he fired and even that guy hated his guts.

Our antipathy toward him made him paranoid and resentful and one by one he started finding excuses to fire the whole staff, certain that if he could clean house he'd be able to do the job. My time came, and he sat me down with his boss, my former manager. She cried as he announced I wasn't personable enough and used too many pepperonis.

I looked at her, the woman who had trained me on how many pepperoni to use, but she said nothing. What could she say? He was the boss now and had determined I was going to be let go regardless. Too many in this case was seven. Seven pepperonis on a personal pizza. The correct number was five according to him, which is one pepperoni per slice, and one in the middle.

I sat there for a moment, taking it in. I smiled at my old manager, obviously miserable. I looked back at him and said, "You're a terrible manager, you're doing the worst imaginable job." I outlined some of the things he'd done so she could hear them, then I stood up and left. I made it to the back room before I started crying.

I found out later through a bus boy that he replaced the whole staff with college kids who had such limited availability that the store couldn't run, then quit three months later leaving the whole place in shambles. Most of the old staff returned, but I'd moved onto the sex shop already and was enjoying a job with significantly less risk of being fired on a whim.

However I do have to disclose on job applications if I've ever been fired. I always says yes and list the reason as, "Excessive use of pepperoni." It has never failed to get a laugh from my interviewer.

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

Imagine Softie!Jason. To everyone else, he's a bit mean and standoffish. But to you, that man is a Simp and a half. Anything you want or need, he gets you. You say a coworker was mean to you at work, they're apologizing the next day. You linger at a shop window looking at a sweater... it's delivered to your apartment by the end of the week. He's being a little mean to someone at a bar and ready to fight, all you have to do is say his name and smile and he backs down. You have a stressful day, that man makes you cum until you beg him to stop and even then 'just one more... you got one more'.

Unf.

Oh, anon, i think you've low key stolen my heart. I love the idea of jay being soft like that<3

Soft! Jason Todd x Reader

Soft! Jason Todd who loves to hold your hand in public, but will always be looking around to make sure no one is too close to you. He might act like it's no big deal, but he's silently watching, ready to jump into action if someone steps out of line. When you hold his hand back, though, he calms down instantly, finding comfort in your touch.

Soft! Jason Todd who insists on carrying all the heavy bags for you, even when you tell him you’re fine. He acts like it’s no big deal, but you can tell he secretly loves being able to do something for you. He’ll always find a way to carry your stuff, whether it's groceries or a backpack, just to make sure you're not burdened.

Soft! Jason Todd who has a habit of brushing your hair out of your face when you're distracted. He’s rough around the edges but, when it comes to you, he’s gentle, as though every touch is an apology for the harsh world he’s lived in. He’ll do it casually, but there's a softness in his eyes when you catch him.

Soft! Jason Todd who would rather risk a fight with anyone who disrespects you than let you deal with any kind of discomfort. He may look like he’s trying to start something, but the second you look at him with a calm expression, he shuts down, knowing you're the one who can stop his rage. His love for you is his anchor.

Soft! Jason Todd who hates seeing you upset. He’ll try to hide his concern under a facade of indifference, but if you’re upset for too long, he becomes clingy. He’ll either silently pull you into his arms or buy you your favorite food in an attempt to make things better, even if he doesn't know the words.

Soft! Jason Todd who’s always watching your back. No matter where you are, he’s like a shadow, always making sure you’re safe. He’ll act tough, but the minute you say, “I’m fine, Jason, stop worrying,” he’s immediately soft and obedient, stepping back but never really leaving.

Soft! Jason Todd who’s surprisingly shy when it comes to complimenting you. He’ll say something like “You're looking good” in that adorable, gruff tone and look away, but his cheeks betray him with a faint blush. He’ll never admit it, but he can’t stop stealing glances at you when you’re not looking.

Soft! Jason Todd who doesn’t mind if you steal his hoodie. In fact, he loves it when you wear it, and he’ll sneak little glances at you, unable to hide the grin spreading across his face. It’s his subtle way of showing you how much you mean to him without saying a word.

Soft! Jason Todd who likes to surprise you with little gestures of affection. He might leave your favorite snack on your bed or clean up your space when you’re too busy. He doesn't expect recognition, but seeing your smile is more than enough for him.

Soft! Jason Todd who gets worried about you when you're out in public, even if you can take care of yourself. He'll scan the room like a hawk, looking for any potential threat, even if it’s just a crowded store. The second you notice and smile at him, he relaxes, his jaw unclenching.

Soft! Jason Todd who never really shows it, but he loves being the one you rely on. When you need something, whether it’s help with a problem or simply a listening ear, he’ll be there without question. His protective nature is fueled by his deep love for you, even if he doesn’t always express it directly.

Soft! Jason Todd who secretly loves the thought of having you around, even when he's pushing you away. He might act like he’s fine being on his own, but he’ll subtly make sure you’re still close. He’ll start with something like, "You don’t have to stay here," but as soon as you do, his demeanor softens and he’ll quietly be grateful.

Soft! Jason Todd who doesn’t let anyone else touch you without a heavy dose of protectiveness. He may be joking around one moment, but if another guy even looks at you the wrong way, he becomes serious, standing in between you and the person. You can count on him to take care of anything that threatens your space, whether physical or emotional.

Soft! Jason Todd who sometimes gets lost in the little things. Whether it’s the way you laugh or the warmth of your hand in his, he takes note of every detail that makes you, you. Even though he won’t say it out loud, he’s always thinking about how lucky he is to have you in his life.

Soft! Jason Todd who can’t help but stare at you when you're concentrating or absorbed in something. He loves how you get lost in what you're doing, and he admires your focus. His gaze is intense, but he’ll play it cool when you catch him, pretending he wasn’t watching but secretly smirking to himself.

Soft! Jason Todd who turns into a grumpy mess when he sees you in distress. Whether you're upset over something small or big, he’s all action, immediately trying to fix whatever's wrong. He may act like he doesn’t want to talk about feelings, but he’ll listen to yours until the issue is resolved.

Soft! Jason Todd who loves to cuddle with you when you're both home after a long day. He’ll pull you close, acting like he's just tired, but secretly, it’s the only time he feels at peace. When you trace your fingers through his hair, he’ll relax completely and maybe even drift off to sleep.

Soft! Jason Todd who can't help the way his hands begin to wander to massage the fat and muscle of your inner thighs. His thick fingers tend to wander beneath your shirt before snaking under the waistband of your pants to gently dig them into your skin.

Soft! Jason Todd who still acts completely normal as he does so, his eyes still focused on the TV on the wall at the foot of your bed. If you knew any better, you'd think that he didn't even notice how bold his touches had grown. This has happened a few too many times for you not to know better, but no efforts were made to stop him.

Soft! Jason Todd who, before you know it, is rubbing slow, languid circles on your clit through your panties. The friction is almost frustratingly slow, but after the shitty day that you've just experienced, you were thankful for any kind of distraction. You swear you almost let out a whimper just from his calloused fingertips brushing under the elastic of your underwear.

Soft! Jason Todd who takes everything as slow as possible, no matter what responsibilities he may have to deal with later on in the night. He knows that your day was less than ideal, but something about you all frazzled just gets him going. Plus, he knows for a fact that he can pull more orgasms out of you when you're so high-strung.

Soft! Jason Todd who doesn't even trail your panties down your legs and past your knees until you've cum on his fingers once or twice. As much as Jason loves to tease, he knows how uncomfortable your sticky, wet panties must be against your puffy and needy pussy.

Soft! Jason Todd who's kneeling on the ground between your plush thighs before you can even blink, his large hands holding onto your hips as if he'll drown when he lets go. His lips are much slower on your skin, however, as they trail light kisses up your thighs and leave small nips along the way.

Soft! Jason Todd who doesn't adjust his pace as you whine and beg, no matter how much you try to persuade him. Every little complaint you let out about him going too slow earns you a light slap to the side. "Jay, baby... Please. I've already had such a long day-" 'smack!' "Quit your yapping, doll face. You can be a good girl and wait."

Soft! Jason Todd who absolutely devours your weeping pussy once his tongue makes contact with your dripping folds. His muscle leaves absolutely no bit of skin untouched as he gives your pulsing clit a little suck every once in a while. He couldn't hold back his smirk when he looked up to see your eyes rolled back in utter ecstasy.

Soft! Jason Todd who's pace stays relentless, even as your fingers are tugging at his black and white locks. "Oh fuck... Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." The curses fall from your lips like a mantra as you tug on his head, unsure of whether you want to greedily pull him closer or push him away to avoid thr overstimulation that's bound to happen. "Quit pulling me away, ma." He mutters into your cunt, spitting on your already dripping folds as he worships you like a piece of art. "You had 'such a bad day,' right? You were just begging for me to touch this pussy. Let me do my job."

Soft! Jason Todd who ends up betwen your quivering thighs for hours on end, greedily licking up every single drop of your endless orgasms that seem to be ripping through you every few minutes. His strong nose is constantly bumping against your overstimulated clit. You're pretty sure that you've cum from that little of contact alone, at this point.

Soft! Jason Todd who literally has to be torn away from your weeping folds as your eyes water from how much you're feeling. Your glassy eyes are just so beautiful as you look down at him with sore fingers tangled into his hair. "Come on, baby..." He coos, pressing a gentle kiss to your thigh as if he hasn't been pleasuring you for the majority of the evening. "You can handle one more. I know this pretty pussy can handle one more for me."

Soft! Jason Todd who ends up making you squirt on his tongue three more times before he finally stops with a kiss to your achy, puffy clit. As always, he makes sure that you get a taste of yourself on his lips as he kisses you until your tears eventually slow to a stop.

Soft! Jason Todd who doesn't even get himself off on nights like this. The only time he allows himself to orgasm when you're upset is if he ruts himself into the side of the couch or if you want to take out some frustration by gagging on his large, thick cock.

Soft! Jason Todd who carries you to bed and wipes you off with the utmost care after overstimulation like this. Every single hickey he's left on your thighs gets kissed and every drop of your fluid mixed with his spit is carefully wiped away with a cool cloth. He makes sure that only the lighter blankets and comforters are left on the bed so that you don't get too hot as you try to come down from your endless highs of the night.

Soft! Jason Todd who is whispering praises into your hair until you fall asleep, one of his hands holding yours with entwined fingers and the other running soothing circles along your back. "You did so good for me, beautiful..." His voice is nothing more than a mumble amongst the ambience of Gotham City outside of his apartment. "I knew you had it in you, baby. I've got you now... No more stress for today. It's all over."

Masterlist

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Predicting the present

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/09/radicalized/#deny-defend-depose

Back in 2018, around the time I emailed my immigration lawyer about applying for US citizenship, I started work on a short story called "Radicalized," which eventually became the title story of a collection that came out in 2019:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250228598/radicalized/

"Radicalized" is a story about America, and about guns, and about health care, and about violence. I live in Burbank, which is ranks second in gun-stores-per-capita in the USA, a dubious honor that represents a kind of regulatory arbitrage with our neighboring goliath, the City of Los Angeles, where gun store licensing is extremely tight. If you're an Angeleno in search of a firearm, you're almost certainly coming to Burbank to buy it.

Walking, cycling and driving past more gun stores than I'd ever seen in my Canadian life got me thinking about Americans and guns, a subject that many Canadians have passed comment upon. Americans kill each other, and especially themselves, at rates that baffle everyone else in the world, and they do it with guns. When we moved here, my UK born-and-raised daughter came home from her first elementary school lockdown drill perplexed and worried. Knowing what I did about US gun violence, I understood that while school shootings and other spree killings happened with dismal and terrifying regularity, they only accounted for a small percentage of the gun deaths here. If you die with a bullet in you, the chances are that the finger on the trigger was your own. The next most likely suspect is someone you know. After that, a cop. Getting shot by a stranger out of uniform is something of a rarity here – albeit a spectacular one that captures our imaginations in ways that deliberate or accidental self-slayings and related-party shootings do not.

So I told her, "Look, you can basically ignore everything they tell you during those lockdown drills, because they almost certainly have nothing to do with your future. But if a friend ever says to you, 'Hey, wanna see my dad's gun?' I want you to turn around and leave and get in touch with me right away, that instant."

Guns turn the murderous impulse – which, let's be honest, we've all felt at some time or another – into a murderous act. Same goes for suicide, which explains the high levels of non-accidental self-shootings in the USA: when you've got a gun, the distance between suicidal ideation and your death is the ten feet from the sofa to the gun in the closet.

Americans get angry at people and then, if they have a gun to hand, sometimes they shoot them. In a thread /r/Burbank about how people at our local cinemas are rude and use their phones in which someone posted, "Well, you should just ask them to stop." The reply: "That's a great way to get shot." No one chimed in to say, "Don't be ridiculous, no one would shoot you for asking them to put away their phone during a movie." Same goes for "road rage."

And while Americans shoot people they've only just gotten angry at, they also sometimes plan shooting sprees and kill a bunch of people because they're just generically angry. Being angry about the state of the world is a completely relatable emotion, of course, but the targets of these shootings are arbitrary. Sure sometimes these killings have clear, bigoted targets – mass shootings at Black supermarkets or mosques or synagogues or gay bars – more often the people who get sprayed with bullets (at country and western concerts or elementary schools or movie theaters) are almost certainly not the people the gunman (almost always a man) is angry at.

This line of thought kept surfacing as I went through the immigration process, but not just when I was dealing with immigration paperwork. I was also spending an incredible amount of time dealing with our health insurer, Cigna, who kept refusing treatments my pain doctor – one of the most-cited pain researchers in the country – thought I would benefit from. I've had chronic pain since I was a teenager, and it's only ever gotten worse. I've had decades of pain care in Canada and the UK, and while the treatments never worked for very long, it was never compounded by the kinds of bureaucratic stuff I went through with my US insurer.

The multi-hour phone calls with Cigna that went nowhere would often have me seeing red – literally, a red tinge closing in around my vision – and usually my hands would be shaking by the time I got off the call.

And I had it easy! I wasn't terminally ill, and I certainly wasn't calling in on behalf of a child or a spouse or parent who was seriously ill or dying, whose care was being denied by their insurer. Bernie's 2016 Medicare For All campaign promise had filled the air with statistics (Americans pay more for care and get worse outcomes than anyone else in the rich world), and stories. So many stories – stories that just tore your heart out, about parents who literally had to watch their children die because the insurance they paid for refused to treat their kids. As a dad, I literally couldn't imagine how I'd cope in that situation. Just thinking about it filled me with rage.

One day, as I was swimming in the community pool across the street – a critical part of my pain management strategy – I was struck with a thought: "Why don't these people murder health insurance executives?" Not that I wanted them to. I don't want anyone to kill anyone. But why do American men who murder their wives and the people who cut them off in traffic and random classrooms full of children leave the health insurance industry alone? This is an industry that is practically designed to fill the people who interact with it with uncontrollable rage. I mean, if you're watching your wife or your kid die before your eyes because some millionaire CEO decided to aim for a $10 billion stock buyback this year instead of his customary $9 billion target, wouldn't you feel that kind of murderous rage?

Around this time, my parents came out for a visit from Canada. It was a great trip, until one night, my mom woke me up after midnight: "We have to take your father to the ER. He's really sick." He was: shaking, nauseated, feverish. We raced down the street to the local hospital, part of a gigantic chain that has swallowed nearly all the doctors' practices, labs and hospitals within an hour's drive of here.

Dad had kidney stones, and they'd gone septic. When the ER docs removed the stones, all the septic gunk in his kidneys was flushed into his bloodstream, and he crashed. If he hadn't been in an ER recovery room at the time, he would have died. As it was, he was in a coma for three days and it was touch and go. My brother flew down from Toronto, not sure if this was his last chance to see our dad alive. The nurses and doctors took great care of my dad, though, and three days later, he emerged from his coma, and today, he's better than ever.

But on day two, when we thought he was probably at the end of his life, as my mother sat at his side, holding the hand of her husband of fifty years, someone from the hospital billing department came to her side and said, "Mrs Doctorow, I know this is a difficult time, but I'd like to discuss the matter of your husband's bill with you."

The bill was $176,000. Thankfully, the travel medical insurance plan offered by the Ontario Teachers' Union pension covered it all (I don't suppose anyone gets very angry with them).

How do people tolerate this? Again, not in the sense of "people should commit violent acts in the face of these provocations," but rather, "How is it that in a country filled with both assault rifles and unimaginable acts of murderous cruelty committed by fantastically wealthy corporations, people don't leap from their murderous impulses to their murderous weapons to commit murderous acts?

For me, writing fiction is an accretive process. I can tell that a story is brewing when thoughts start rattling around in my mind, resurfacing at odd times. I think of them as stray atoms, seeking molecules with available docking sites to glom onto. I process all my emotions – but especially my negative ones – through this process, by writing stories and novels. I could tell that something was cooking, but it was missing an ingredient.

Then I found it: an interview with the woman who coined the term "incel." It was on the Reply All podcast, and Alana, a queer Canadian woman explained that she had struggled all her life to find romantic and sexual partnership, and jokingly started referring to herself as "involuntarily celibate," and then, as an "incel":

https://gimletmedia.com/shows/reply-all/76h59o

Alana started a message board where other "incels" could offer each other support, and it was remarkably successful. The incels on Alana's message board helped each other work through the problems that stood between them and love, and when they did, they drifted away from the board to pursue a happier life.

That was the problem, Alana explained. If you're in a support group for people with a drinking problem, the group elders, the ones who've been around forever, are the people who've figured it out and gotten sober. When life seems impossible, those elders step in to tell you, I know it's terrible right now, but it'll get better. I was where you are and I got through it. You will, too. I'm here for you. We all are.

But on Alana's incel board, the old timers were the people who couldn't figure it out. They were the ones for whom mutual support and advice didn't help them figure out what they needed to do in order to find the love they sought. The longer the message board ran, the more it became dominated by people who were convinced that it was hopeless, that love was impossible for the likes of them. When newbies posted in rage and despair, these Great Old Ones were there to feed it: You're right. It will never get better. It only gets worse. There is no hope.

That was the missing piece. My short story Radicalized was born. It's a story about men on a message board called Fuck Cancer Right In the Fucking Face (FCKRFF, or "Fuckriff"), who are watching the people they love the most in the world be murdered by their insurance companies, who egg each other on to spectacular acts of mass violence against health insurance company employees, hospital billing offices, and other targets of their rage. As of today, anyone can read this story for free, courtesy of my publishers at Macmillan, who gave permission for the good folks at The American Prospect to post it:

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

I often hear from people about this story, even before an unknown (at the time of writing) man assassinated Brian Thompson, CEO of Unitedhealthcare, the murderous health insurance monopoly that is the largest medical insurer in the USA. Since then, hundreds of people have gotten in touch with me to ask me how I feel about this turn of events, how it feels to have "predicted" this.

I've been thinking about it for a few days now, and I gotta tell you, I have complicated feelings.

You've doubtless seen the outpourings of sarcastic graveyard humor about Thompson's murder. People hate Unitedhealthcare, for good reason, because he personally decided – or approved – countless policies that killed people by cheating them until they died.

Nurses and doctors hate Thompson and United. United kills people, for money. During the most acute phase of the pandemic, the company charged the US government $11,000 for each $8 covid test:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/06/137300-pct-markup/#137300-pct-markup

UHC leads the nation in claims denials, with a denial rate of 32% (!!). If you want to understand how the US can spend 20% of its GDP and get the worst health outcomes in the world, just connect the dots between those two facts: the largest health insurer in human history charges the government a 183,300% markup on covid tests and also denies a third of its claims.

UHC is a vertically integrated, murdering health profiteer. They bought Optum, the largest pharmacy benefit manager ("A spreadsheet with political power" -Matt Stoller) in the country. Then they starved Optum of IT investment in order to give more money to their shareholders. Then Optum was hacked by ransomware gang and no one could get their prescriptions for weeks. This killed people:

https://www.economicliberties.us/press-release/malicious-threat-actor-accesses-unitedhealth-groups-monopolistic-data-exchange-harming-patients-and-pharmacists/#

The irony is, Optum is terrible even when it's not hacked. The purpose of Optum is to make you pay more for pharmaceuticals. If that's more than you can afford, you die. Optum – that is, UHC – kills people:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/23/shield-of-boringness/#some-men-rob-you-with-a-fountain-pen

Optum isn't the only murderous UHC division. Take Navihealth, an algorithm that United uses to kick people out of their hospital beds even if they're so frail, sick or injured they can't stand or walk. Doctors and nurses routinely watch their gravely ill patients get thrown out of their hospitals. Many die. UHC kills them, for money:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-08-16-steward-bankruptcy-physicians-private-equity/

The patients murdered by Navihealth are on Medicare Advantage. Medicare is the public health care system the USA extends to old people. Medicare Advantage is a privatized system you can swap your Medicare coverage for, and UHC leads the country in Medicare Advantage, blitzing seniors with deceptive ads that trick them into signing up for UHC Medicare Advantage. Seniors who do this lose access to their doctors and specialists, have to pay hundreds or thousands of dollars for their medication, and get hit with $400 surprise bills to use the "free" ambulance service:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-12-05-manhattan-medicare-murder-mystery/

No wonder the public spends 22% more subsidizing Medicare Advantage than they spend on the care for seniors who stick with actual Medicare:

https://theconversation.com/taxpayers-spend-22-more-per-patient-to-support-medicare-advantage-the-private-alternative-to-medicare-that-promised-to-cost-less-241997

It's not just the elderly, it's also the addicted and mentally ill. UHC illegally denies coverage for mental health and substance abuse treatment. Imagine watching a family member spiral out of control, ODing, or ending up on the streets with hallucinations, and knowing that the health insurance company that takes thousands of dollars out of your paycheck refused to treat them:

https://www.startribune.com/unitedhealthcare-will-pay-15-7m-in-settlement-of-denial-of-care-charges/600087607

Unsurprising, the internal culture at UHC is callous beyond belief. How could it not be? How could you go to work at UHC and know you were killing people and not dehumanize those victims? A lawsuit by chronically ill patient whom UHC had denied care for surfaced recorded phone calls in which UHC employees laughed long and hard about the denied claims, dismissing the patient's desperate, tearful pleas as "tantrums" :

https://www.propublica.org/article/unitedhealth-healthcare-insurance-denial-ulcerative-colitis

Those UHC workers are just trying to get by, of course, and the callouses they develop so they can bear to go to work were ripped off by last week's murder. UHC's executive team knows this, and has gone on a rampage to stop employees from leaking their own horror stories, or even mentioning that the internal company announcement of Thompson's death was seen by 16,000 employees, of whom only 28 left a comment:

https://www.kenklippenstein.com/p/unitedhealthcare-tells-employees

Doctors and nurses hate UHC on behalf of their patients, but it's also personal. UHC screws doctor's practices by refusing to pay them, making them chase payments for months or even years, and then it offers them a payday lending service that helps them keep the lights on while they wait to get paid:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frr4wuvAB6U

Is it any surprise that Reddit's nursing forums are full of nurses making grim, satisfied jokes about the assassination of the $10m/year CEO who ran the $400b/year corporation that does all this?

https://www.thedailybeast.com/leading-medical-subreddit-deletes-thread-on-unitedhealthcare-ceos-murder-after-users-slam-his-record/

We're not supposed to experience – much less express – schadenfreude when someone is murdered in the street, no matter who they are. We're meant to express horror at the idea of political violence, even when that violence only claims a single life, a fraction of the body count UCH produced under Thompson's direction. As Malcolm Harris put it, "'Every life is precious' stuff about a healthcare CEO whose company is noted for denying coverage is pretty silly":

https://twitter.com/BigMeanInternet/status/1864471932386623753

As Woody Guthrie wrote, "Some will rob you with a six-gun/And some with a fountain pen." The weapon is lethal when it's a pistol and when it's an insurance company. The insurance company merely serves as an accountability sink, a layer of indirection that lets a murder happen without any person being the technical murderer:

https://profilebooks.com/work/the-unaccountability-machine/

I don't want people to kill insurance executives, and I don't want insurance executives to kill people. But I am unsurprised that this happened. Indeed, I'm surprised that it took so long. It should not be controversial to note that if you run an institution that makes people furious, they will eventually become furious with you. This is the entire pitch of Thomas Piketty's Capital in the 21st Century: that wealth concentration leads to corruption, which is destabilizing, and in the long run it's cheaper to run a fair society than it is to pay for the guards you'll need to keep the guillotines off your lawn:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/06/24/thomas-pikettys-capital-in-the-21st-century/

But we've spent the past 40 years running in the other direction, maximizing monopolies, inequality and corruption, and gaslighting the public when they insist that this is monstrous and unfair. Back in 2022, when UHC was buying Change Healthcare – the dominant payment network for hospitals, which would allow UHC to surveil all its competitors' payments – the DOJ sued to block the merger. The Trump-appointed judge in the case, Carl Nichols – who owned tens of thousands of dollars in UHC bonds – ruled against the DOJ, saying that it would all be fine thanks to United's "culture of trust and integrity":

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/the-antitrust-shooting-war-has-started

We don't know much about Thompson's killer yet, but he's already becoming a folk hero, with lookalike contests in NYC:

https://twitter.com/CollinRugg/status/1865472577478553976

And gigantic graffiti murals praising him and reproducing the words he wrote on the shell casings of the bullets he used to kill Thompson, "delay, deny, depose":

https://www.tumblr.com/radicalgraff/769193188403675136/killin-fuckin-ceos-freight-graff-in-the-bay

I get why this is distasteful. Thompson is said to have been a "family man" who loved his kids, and I have no reason to disbelieve this. I can only imagine that his wife and kids are shattered by this. Every living person is the apex of a massive project involving dozens, hundreds of people who personally worked to raise, nurture and love them. I wrote about this in my novel Walkaway, as the characters consider whether to execute a mercenary sent to kill them, whom they have taken hostage:

She had parents. People who loved her. Every human was a hyper-dense node of intense emotional and material investment. Speaking meant someone had spent thousands of hours cooing to you. Those lean muscles, the ringing tone of command — their inputs were from all over the world, carefully administered. The merc was more than a person: like a spaceship launch, her existence implied thousands of skilled people, generations of experts, wars, treaties, scholarship and supply-chain management. Every one of them was all that.

But so often, the formula for "folk hero" is "killing + time." The person who terrorizes the people who terrorize you is your hero, and eventually we sanitize the deaths, and just remember them as fighters for justice. If you doubt it, consider the legend of Robin Hood:

https://twitter.com/mcmansionhell/status/1865554985842352501

The health industry is trying to put a lid on this, palpably afraid that – as in my story "Radicalized" – this one murderer will become a folk hero who inspires others to acts of spectacular violence. They're insisting that it's unseemly to gloat about Thompson's death. They're right, but this is an obvious loser strategy. The health industry is full of people whose deaths would be deplorable, but not unsurprising. As Clarence Darrow had it:

I’ve never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure.

Murder is never the answer. Murder is not a healthy response to corruption. But it is healthy for people to fear that if they kill people for greed, they will be unsafe. On December 5 – the day after Thompson's killing – the health insurer Anthem announced that it would not pay for anesthesia for medical procedures that ran long. The next day, they retracted the policy, citing "outrage":

https://www.cnn.com/2024/12/05/health/anthem-blue-cross-blue-shield-anesthesia-claim-limits/index.html

Sure, maybe it was their fear of reputation damage that got them to decide to reverse this inhumane, disgusting, murderous policy. But maybe it was also someone in the C-suite thinking about what share of the profits from this policy would have to be spent on additional bodyguards for every Anthem exec if it went into effect, and decided that it was a money-loser after all.

Think about hospital exec Ralph de la Torre, who cheerfully testified to Congress that he'd killed patients in pursuit of profit. De la Torre clearly doesn't fear any kind of consequences for his actions. He owns hospitals that are filled with tens of thousands of bats (he stiffed the exterminators), where none of the elevators work (he stiffed the repair techs), where there's no medicine or blood (he stiffed the suppliers) and where the doctors and nurses can't make rent (he stiffed them too). De La Torre doesn't just own hospitals – he also owns a pair of superyachts:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/28/5000-bats/#charnel-house

It is a miracle that so many people have lost their mothers, sons, wives and husbands so Ralph de la Torre could buy himself another superyacht, and that those people live in a country where you can buy an assault rifle, and that Ralph de la Torre isn't forced to live in a bunker and travel in a tank.

It's a rather beautiful sort of miracle, to be honest. I like to think that it comes from a widespread belief by the people of this country I have since become a citizen of, that we should solve our problems politically, rather than with bullets.

But the assassination of Brian Thompson is a wake-up call, a warning that if we don't solve this problem politically, we may not have a choice about whether it's solved with violence. As a character in "Radicalized" says, "They say violence never solves anything, but to quote The Onion: that's only true so long as you ignore all of human history":

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

[agreeeeeeeeeee]

Best Friends Brother ⊹ . + °

| Charlie Weasley x fem!reader

summary: You are Fred & George’s best friend, and meet their mysterious older brother, Charlie, at a product launch at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

cw: MDNI 18+ smut with basically zero plot. charlie has an absolutely filthy mouth. no war (or light war? idk, everyone is alive)

an: this was supposed to be a casual hook up when I initally planned it, but the dick was so good they fell in love ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

part two | masterlist

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Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes had a line around the building, hopeful witches and wizards desperate to get a glimpse of the Weasley twin’s newest product. You strolled past them in your mini dress and tights, more than a little chuffed by their jealous glares.

The doors were locked, blocked off with enchanted rope, but when Fred spotted you through the window, he ran to unlock the doors.

“Y/n! I’m so glad you could make it. Georgie, looks who’s here!” Fred slung an arm over your shoulders and ushered you into the store. It was the cleanest you’d ever seen it, with streamers and lights strung everywhere, and a long table loaded with food and drink.

“Y/n!” George shouted, popping up from behind the register. Both of them were dressed in freshly pressed brown suits, looking exceptionally dapper. He came aroud the counter and pulled you into a hug. “Thanks for coming out.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you grinned up at them, pride filling your chest. You’d been close with the twins for years, a friendship that started in school and only grew in adulthood, since you worked a few doors down at Honeydukes.

“Come, you have to meet our family!” They ushered you upstairs, where a dozen or so people waited, several faces were familiar, some were not.

“You remember Harry, Ron, and Ginny,” George said, and you greeted them all with a wave.

“And our parents, Molly and Arthur,” Fred continued.

“Oh, y/n! How lovely to see you!” Molly cooed, pulling you into a rib-cracking hug. “My, what a beautiful young lady you’ve grown into.” She pinched you cheek, and heat scorched your face.

“And this is our older brother’s Percy, Charlie, and Bill. And Bill’s wife, Fleur.”

You turned to the trio of men hovering by the bookcases, and nearly tripped over your heels. Percy, you remembered from school, Fleur as well, and Bill was too busy gazing down at her blonde head to glance your way. But Charlie. He stared straight through you, his dark eyes swallowing you whole.

“Pleasure,” Charlie said, his voice honeyed and deep. He was shorter that Percy beside him, but muscular enough that the maroon blazer he wore seemed a little stretched at the shoulders. His white button down shirt beneath it was tailored perfectly to fit across his wide chest and taper at his defined waist. Freckles kissed his cheeks and forehead, his skin a shade tanner than his siblings, though he shared their ginger hair, mid-length and wavy.

“Hello,” you managed, giving him a small smile. But before you could engage further, George whisked you away.

“It’s tiiiime!” Fred shouted, waving his wand, and the doors burst open.

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As the event raged on, you found yourself drawn to Charlie’s orbit, watching as he mingled with guests and chatted with his family. He seemed to draw a lot of attention, what with his rugged good looks and the fact that he was a dragon trainer. It seemed everyone wanted a sliver of Charlie Weasley’s attention.

So you admired him from a far, and tried to help Fred and George as best you could.

You chatted with customers, explaining the new product the best you could, but you kept feeling the tug of someone’s attention at the nape of your neck, distracting you. When the customer finally moved on, you glanced towards the direction of the feeling, and caught Charlie watching you over the rim of his fire whiskey, ignoring the gentleman attempting to talk to him entirely.

The air froze in your lungs, you heart tripping over itself. His gaze was scorching, and if looks could burn…you were certain your clothes would be rendered to ash.

Desire pooled in your lower belly, heating your blood to an uncomfortable degree. Your heart was pounding so loudly in your ears, you missed George approach.

“Hey, y/n, enjoying yourself?” He asked, offering you a glass of champagne with a candy snitch floating in it.

You accepted with a smile. “I am, thank you. You guys have done an incredible job.”

George beamed, clinking your glasses together before loping off to sell to another customer.

“So, how long have you known my brothers?” A low voice murmured in your ear, and you whirled around, nearly spilling champagne all over Charlie’s front. He caught your elbow with a steady hand, his grip firm but gentle. “Easy, love,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Oh, uh, f-five years? I think,” you stuttered, looking anywhere but his smoldering eyes.

“Then how have we never met? I’d certainly remember you.”

You shrugged a shoulder, taking what you hoped was a casual sip of wine. “Seems you haven’t been paying much attention,” you teased, finally meeting his eyes.

His smirk grew into a soft smile. “What a grave error on my part.”

“Are you in town for the event, or…?” You could feel heat climbing up your neck, but you willed yourself to keep a level head. You knew how to flirt, had done so with plenty of blokes in your time, but none as handsome and disarming as Charlie.

“I thought so, but evidently the Gods had other ideas.”

You knees nearly buckled. “Like?” You coyly tilted your head, allowing your eyes to trail across his broad shoulders, down his chest. Was this guy seriously flirting with you? You knew you weren’t unattractive, but Charlie was…phew.

“Like…” He flushed a little, betraying his suave demeanor, and your heart slipped a little further into his hands. “Meeting the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Ever?” You teased, pulling your lower lip between your teeth.

“In this life and probably the next.” He took a sip of his whiskey, letting his eyes wander over you the same way yours did him. And based on the way they darkened, his pupils widening just a fraction, he liked what he saw as much as you did.

“Does that line always work for you?”

“Well, considering I’ve never tried it, why don’t you tell me?”

+ ° . ๑・° ⊹ . + ° . ๑・° ⊹ . + ° . ๑・° ⊹ . +

Charlie slammed the door shut behind you before crowding you against it, his lips colliding with yours. He tasted like whiskey and pumpkin, with a tinge of cigarette smoke that went straight to your head, and you eagerly tangled your tongue with his, pushing his blazer off his shoulders.

“Colloportus,” he murmured against your mouth, and you heard the lock schick into place. He shrugged his blazer off, tossing it somewhere in the dark storage closet, and his hands were on you again, one sliding into your hair, the other on your lower back, drawing you closer.

“Charlie?” You gasped as his lips traveled down your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses along your skin, his short beard a rough contrast to the suppleness of his kiss.

“Yeah, honey?” he panted, lifting his head to meet your eyes.

“I don’t usually…” you trailed off, nerves suddenly closing your throat.

His hand slid from your hair to cup your cheek, his callouses rough against your heated skin. “Me neither,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. “We can do whatever you want, love. I’ll take you to the nicest restaurant in London, or on Dragon-back to the Swiss Alps, or on a cruise ship to the Americas—”

You cut him off with a kiss, throwing your arms around his neck. “And if I want you to fuck me?” you said between pecks, tugging at the roots of his hair.

He smiled and scooped you up by the meat of your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist so your skirt pushed up over your hips. “Then I’ll fuck you as often as ya’ like.” He turned and dropped you onto some kind of work bench, sending the papers and junk flying with a sweep of his arm.

“The twin’s are going to be pissed,” you giggled, leaning back onto the wood so he could continue his previous assault on your neck.

“Fuck ‘em,” he muttered, nipping at your collarbones. His hands gripped your thighs with dizzying strength, the same hands that handled massive, fire-breathing beasts, and spread you open for his hungry gaze. “Seven fucking hells,” he breathed, running his hands down your inner thighs. “You’re perfect.”

In a swift motion, he ripped your tights at the seam, the sound sending a pulse of arousal to your already dripping pussy, a sharp gasp forcing it’s way from your throat. His fingers glided over your wet panties, so delicate compared to the force he’d used heartbeat before.

Your hips lifted slightly, chasing his gentle touch. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been this desperate for someone to touch you, your entire body tuned to his every breath, every twitch of his muscles. He looked so fucking good leaning over you, his previously tidy shirt rumpled, his hair in copper waves around his face, his lips a little red from your fevered kisses.

With his ring finger, her drew your panties to the side, his middle fingers gliding through your slit and circling your clit twice. “Already so wet for me, honey. What did I do to deserve such a warm welcome?” he purred, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to your forehead.

Your brain couldn’t formulate a response, his touch mind-numbing. Pleasure radiated form his fingers, syrupy and languid, with none of the frenetic energy from before. A moan slipped past your lips, your eyes fluttering closed as he coaxed your pussy to bloom for him.

“And such pretty sounds.” He rolled up his shirt sleeve with his free hand, exposing the muscles and veins along his thick forearm. Slowly, he slipped his middle finger inside of you, large enough to stretch you slightly.

“Fuck, Charlie,” you whined, raising yourself onto your elbows so you could watch him play with you.

“I suppose I shouldn’t stretch this out too long, someone might come looking for us,” he mused. “But I could spend a fucking eternity spoiling this greedy little pussy.” He slipped another finger into you channel, pumping them a few times just to feel your cunt suck him back in. “Would you like that, love?” He tilted your chin up with his free hand, an unspoken request for an answer.

“Y-yes, Charlie. Please,” you panted, stretching up to steal a quick peck. He deepened the kiss, shifting his weight to press you back down onto the desk as his tongue flirted with yours. His hand picked up the pace, fucking you steadily as he devoured your mouth, teeth skating along your swollen flesh before sucking lightly on your tongue.

You don’t know what God blessed him with such a skilled tongue, but you needed to make an offering in thanks stat.

But since you couldn’t do that…

“Charlie?” You asked, reaching around to touch his wrist between your legs.

He immediately stopped, withdrawing his hand completely. “What’s wrong?” He searched your face for signs of discomfort, his brows drawn together.

You pressed a kiss to his bearded cheek before sliding off the desk. He watched you, confused and concerned, then you lowered yourself to your knees and his jaw went slack.

“Honey, you don’t have to—”

“Please, Charlie?” You batted your lashes up at him, tugging lightly on his belt.

“Merlin’s fucking—I can’t say no to you when you look at me like that, sweetheart.”

“Then don’t,” you teased, undoing his belt and zipper. You could see the outline of his cock against his black boxers, thick and throbbing as you glided your fingers over it.

He sucked in a breath, gripping the edge of the table with one of his hands. Encouraged, you dragged the flat of your tongue over the fabric, feeling the heat of him, the wetness collecting by the swollen head.

“I must have died in the dragon pit and gone to heaven. My god, woman,” he rasped, running his fingers through his hair to keep it from blocking the sight.

You giggled, licking a few more stripes before reaching up to free him. His cock sprung out, veiny and flushed pink. And, to your absolute shock and delight, even his cock was freckled.

“You have the prettiest cock I’ve ever seen,” you praised, and his cheeks flushed pink. You laved your tongue along the thickest vein, earning a throaty groan. You sucked the head into your mouth, lapping up the precum pearling from his slit.

Charlie’s head fell back, one of his hands sliding into your hair. He didn’t add any pressure, just held you as you started to suck him, moving a little further down each time. You wrapped your hand around the base, there was no way you’d fit the entire thing in your mouth, and started pumping him, matching the motions with your mouth. His skin was like velvet, soft and smooth, and you loved feeling him pulse against your tongue with every dip of your head.

“You are too damn good at that. So fucking pretty swallowing my cock.” His thumb stroked your cheek while he gazed down at you, stars in his eyes. “You like sucking me off, honey?”

You nodded as best you could, flicking your tongue at the groove just beneath the head. His hips lurched forward, a grunt escaping through his teeth.

“Fuck, sorry, love. I’m trying to stay still for ya’, but feels so fucking good.”

You reached up and guided his hand into your hair, then used it to push your head down, giving him the best puppy dog eyes you could muster.

He smirked, his hand fisting in your hair. “Whatever you say, gorgeous.” He started moving your head along his shaft, rocking his hips in time with the movements. He went easy at first, but as drool began to track down your chin, your eyes rolling back in bliss, he picked up the pace. But he only fucked your mouth for a few, punishing strokes before lifting you off of him. He slammed his mouth to yours, a harsh, hungry kiss that had you seeing stars.

You whined in protest, but he shushed you by lifting you into the air and setting you on the table once more.

“If you thought I wasn’t going to fuck you, you’re mad,” he gruffed, dragging the hot head of his cock through your pussy lips. “That is, if you still want me to?”

“Yes, fuck, now, Charlie. Please.” You spread your legs a little wider for him,

“Anything for you, love.” He leaned down and kissed you again, sliding his cock into your depths at the same time. The feeling of being filled by him bordered on divine, silken and hot. He was stretching you just enough to leave you with that delicious ache between your legs. You moaned into each other’s mouths, the sounds caught up by his tongue parting your lips and caressing yours.

He drew his hips back, agonizingly slow, letting you feel every inch of one another, before he slammed back in, knocking the air from your lungs. It seemed he was at the end of his control, his grip on your hips bruising as he fucked you hard, jostling the desk beneath you and making the shelves along the walls rock.

“Fuck, Charlie. Feels so good,” you cried, trying and failing to keep yourself quiet as he railed you, every thrust like a lightning strike of pleasure through your body.

“Yeah? You take my cock so well, baby. Wet little pussy squeezing the life outta’ me,” he groaned, his hair tickling your face. “So good f’me, honey. Like you were made for me.”

Your muscles tightened, veering closer and closer to your peak, his praise sending little pulses of bliss your clit.

“You like being praised, baby? Hearing how perfect you are for me? Fuck, I can feel how much you like that, squeezing me so hard.” His hand slipped between you, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing tight circles over you puffy clit. “Come for me, y/n. I know you can. I want to feel you fall apart around me. That’s a good girl—”

Your cry drowned out his praise as your peak crashed over you, visceral and exquisite. The world vanished, blown apart by the burst of starlight in your chest as you came for him. Pulses of pleasure made your body shake and buck, your eyes squeezing shut as he fucked you through it.

“That’s it, honey. Such a good fucking girl. Merlin, you’re gonna make me come.” He rested on his forearms, braced on either side of your head, hitting an entirely new angle as you came back into your body.

“Charlie,” you whimpered, clinging to him. ”I’ve got ya’, love. Don’t worry. Just a little longer—fuck.” A strangled groan broke from his throat and you felt his cock swell, then kick against your walls, the first hot stream of release painting your insides.

He rested his head on your shoulder as he muscles trembled, his hips pressed flush to yours. You wrapped you arms around his shoulders, still weak from that soul-shaking orgasm. His lips passed over your shoulder, your clavicle, up your neck, before finally ghosting of your lips, soft and breathless.

You remained like that for longer than you probably should have, enraptured with one another. You'd been complete strangers a few hours ago, but this wasn't a hook up akin to a one night stand. This was the reunification of two beings, the re-raveling of a soul tie.

“Y/n,” he murmured, kissing your forehead, your temple. “Y/n, y/n, y/n…” He held you like he'd die if he let go.

“Charlie,” you exhaled, nuzzling behind his ear.

“Can I take you to Romania with me?” He whispered, a joke, you presumed, but there was no humor in his voice.

“I've never seen a dragon before—”

The door knob jiggled, and someone pressed against it, the wood groaning.

“Shit.” Charlie jumped backwards, scrambling to right your dress and smooth your hair.

“Hey, Freddie! This doors locked for some reason.”

“Charlie, your dick,” you snickered while he wiped away a smudge of your lipstick.

“Fuck, right.”

“Alohamor—”

“COLLOPORTUS,” Charlie barked out, snatching his wand from his boot.

“Charlie?” George called, knocking on the door.

Charlie tucked you behind him and undid the spell, peeking the door open. “If you say another word, you're dragon food,” he growled, and you had to clap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.

“You got a girl in there, mate?” George asked, and you could hear the shit-eating grin on his face.

“George,” Charlie warned.

“Fine, fine. You've got ten minutes before I actually need to get in there.” George knocked once more then strode away, his footsteps disappearing down the hall.

Charlie sagged against the door, exhaling. “I'm sorry, love,” he said, turning to you.

You pecked his cheek. “Don't be sorry, that was the best lay of my life.” You tried to reassure him, despite the curdling sadness in your chest.

A shy smile broke through his serious expression. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “I can only imagine how good it would be when we had all the time in the world,” you murmured against his ear, a shiver rolling down his spine. It was better to leave it like this, flirty, casual, than with whatever…that was.

“I mean, we’ve got ten minutes…”

You patted his chest and slipped out of the door, finding George waiting at the end of the hall, arms crossed.

His jaw dropped. “Y/n!”

Charlie ran out behind you. “I swear to God, George—”

“Are all Weasley's this dramatic?” You closed George's mouth with a finger under his chin.

“Where did—when did—how?” George stuttered, looking back and forth between the two of you.

Charlie smirked, shrugging back on his blazer. “I'll explain when you're older,” Charlie teased. “Would you like a drink, y/n?”

“I'd love one.“ You threaded your arm through his, and together returned to the party.

> Part Two

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Thanks for reading!

If you enjoyed, please check out my published work here.

Much love,

Allie

[dilemmaontwolegs]

You Came, You Called || LN4

Summary: when strangers follow you from the nightclub there’s only one person you want to call.

Warnings: angst, threatening behaviour, fluff

WC: 2.4K

Lando stirred at the sound of his phone ringing on the bedside table. There were few people who could get past the ‘do not disturb’ setting that came into effect after midnight. With bleary eyes he reached for the phone and cringed at the bright light in his face but the sight of your name chased away his exhaustion.

It had been 162 days since you last spoke to him. It had been 162 days since he had ruined everything. He regretted his foolishness for every single one of those days and his stomach flipped at the thought of hearing your voice.

“Hey,” he answered, a flinch following as his voice cracked from lack of use while he slept. He quickly cleared it before trying again. “Hey.”

“Hey, baby.”

Alarm bells rang in his head and he sat up straight. Had you called the wrong man? That thought soured in his mouth.

“I’m on my way home.”

It wasn’t your unsteady voice he was focused on but the male voices that sounded far too close for his liking. “Aw, don’t call your boyfriend. We only want to talk.”

“Where are you?” Lando was already pulling on a pair of sweatpants and grabbing the first shirt he came across. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you whispered with a tremble in your tone. “I miss you.”

“Tell me where you are, sweetheart. I’m on my way.”

“Come on, gorgeous, it’s just a bit of fun,” a man called out and Lando saw red when he heard you choke back a sob. He knew the sound because he had been the reason for it before, and it had haunted him ever since. “He doesn’t have to know.”

“I’m heading towards Chocolat Boutique, please hurry.”

“I’m coming, sweetheart. I’m on my way.” Lando was already racing down to the garage and jumping in his McLaren. The engine roared loudly in the underground space before he tore out onto the street. “Keep talking to me, okay?”

The small store would have closed hours ago, but it was down the street from Jimmyz nightclub which was where you probably had been. He didn’t even know you were in town, and he didn’t have a right to know your whereabouts anymore.

“I’m scared, Lan.” The pain echoed around him as his phone connected to the car and played in surround sound.

“I know you are, but it’s going to be okay. I’m almost there, I promise.” He didn’t care about speeding tickets or running red lights. He flew through the narrow streets as he was forced to listen to the cat calls.

“I didn’t know who to call,” you admitted as you tried to walk faster but your heels hindered any escape. The three men were getting closer but they were in no hurry as they prowled both sides of the street to herd you along.

“You can always call me, love,” Lando swore, taking the last turn fast enough for the tires to squeal in protest. “And I’ll always answer.”

He found you on the footpath clutching your phone to your ear, hand cupped over the microphone as you spoke to him. Fear had widened your eyes and your normal stature cowered under the gaze of the men behind you.

Twisting the steering wheel, Lando skidded to a halt beside you and threw the door open. You had seen him angry before, when races don’t go his way, but this was beyond anger. Waves of rage rolled off him as you leapt into his arms, your trembling form finding itself molding perfectly back into his body. Two puzzle pieces slotting back together.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he soothed as he cradled the back of your head and glared over your shoulder. “You’re safe now.”

He might not have been the most imposing figure but you knew Lando was strong and regularly had boxing lessons for training. You had no doubt that if anything escalated he would use every lesson to protect you, but the cowards shrank back into the shadows of the shops.

“Let’s get you home.”

You were in such a state of shock that you didn’t see Lando wince at his mistake. You hadn’t called his apartment home for 162 days, not since you packed your bags and left. But right now you longed for that place where you had felt so safe and secure, tangled in his sheets and he curled his body around yours.

He opened the passenger door and reluctantly stepped out of your embrace to guide you into the seat. The doors locked as he started the engine and you exhaled a heavy breath of relief when the street was left behind.

Tearing your eyes away from the tinted window, you looked at Lando properly and saw his disheveled appearance. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“I’m not.” He took his eyes off the road for a second before reaching over to take your hand. “You’re freezing.”

He couldn’t tell if you were shaking because you were cold or if it was the adrenaline leading to shock. Dropping your hand he reached behind your seat to grab a hoodie that was always left in the car. The material was soft and smelled like him as you pulled on, inhaling deeply at the familiarity of the scent.

“I miss stealing these,” you whispered as you buried your cold hands into the front pocket.

Lando chuckled at the admission. He missed seeing his hoodies on you and asking if you knew where his favourite ones were. You would lie and he would smile at how terrible the attempt was.

“You can steal that one, if you want. I have too many now that they don’t mysteriously disappear.”

The car pulled into the garage and you found the space where your car used to park now filled with a pretty Lamborghini. A new sense of sadness hit that of course everything could be upgraded and replaced. “You can take me to my hotel. I wasn’t thinking clearly, you probably have company.”

His lips turned down at the thought and he shook his head. Lando understood why you would assume that, after all it was the reason you had left. What he had thought was harmless flirting had wrought destruction on his relationship with you. He knew he should’ve deleted the messages as soon as they were received but a moment of weakness when he was away from you led him to reply.

He betrayed your trust and he had regretted it ever since.

“There isn’t anyone,” he said as he parked. “There isn’t anyone ever, just to be clear.”

You mulled over his words as you stepped out of the car and accepted his hand, trading the warmth of the pocket for his palm. You kept hearing the insinuation echo with each step in the empty garage.

“Did you go out alone tonight?”

You shook your head. “Ana felt sick so she left. I should have gone with her.”

“So why did you stay?”

You weren’t ready to admit there was a slight hope you would see him so you just shrugged. It was Saturday night in Monaco and Jimmyz was the place to be - especially for a handsome, single man like Lando. You hadn’t wanted it to be this way though.

“I stopped going there after…a couple of months ago,” he said as he unlocked his door.

“Why? You loved that place.”

“I loved going with you,” he corrected. “I got to hold you and dance, show you off to everyone. When I went back, everyone just wanted to use me.”

You could imagine the women fawning over him and the men trying to be his next best friend. Sex or money, it was all they wanted from him.

“I’m sorry, Lan.”

“Lan,” he chuckled, following the light down the hall to his bedroom. The blanket was tossed aside and his charging cord was half hanging from the wall, a testament to how quickly he had left his bed to rescue you. “No one else calls me that anymore. It’s always Lando Norris, full name, so fucking weird. It’s Lando Norris getting out of his car. Oh, look, it’s Lando Norris scratching his nose.”

You laughed at his impersonation and sat at the edge of the bed. It was such an innocent thing but it brought back a million memories made in this room and he was seeing them all too as he stood frozen.

“Are you going to stand there all night, Lando Norris?”

His eyes traced your lips that mocked him before he shook his head of the thought that entered his head. Going to his wardrobe, he grabbed a loose shirt and tossed it to you before turning his back. “That’ll be more comfortable to sleep in than your dress.”

You laughed to yourself as he turned away, despite intimately knowing every inch of your body, until you found his eyes in the reflection of the mirror. His tortured eyes dared you to tell him to look away, but they begged you all the same. Maybe you were feeling grateful for the rescue, or maybe it was just an old habit that you held his gaze as you rose to your feet and let your dress fall to the floor with his hoodie.

His eyes darkened and he groaned, but the sound woke him up from his stupor. “I’ll go sleep on the couch.”

“Wait.” You took a step towards him as he stepped towards the door. “Please stay.”

He heard the fragility in your tone and the residual fear from the evening creeping back. He knew it was a bad idea but he couldn’t find the words to voice them as he gripped the door handle.

You watched his fingers release their tight hold before he nodded. “But please put the shirt on,” he pleaded as you tested his self restraint.

It was summer and the air still held warmth despite the early hour, but you dutifully pulled it over your head and climbed into the sheets. Lando waited until you were completely covered before he walked around to his side of the bed and curled up at the edge.

You both lay in silence, back to back, watching the shadows on the wall as the minutes ticked away. Lando was like a heat seeking missile and he was fighting an internal battle to keep from rolling over and curling his body around yours. You had always loved physical contact, it was comforting to be wrapped in his arms.

You knew he was awake and uncomfortable.

He knew you were awake and uncomfortable.

A few more minutes passed and you could no longer pretend he didn’t exist, or that you didn’t want the comfort he could give. “Lan?”

“Yeah?” His response was instant and you felt the bed shift as he rolled onto his back.

“Stop being weird and just cuddle me so we can get some sleep.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You giggled and reached blindly for him. “I am already.”

Your hand found his arm and he shimmied across the space until it curled around your waist. His knees tucked behind yours and his breath warmed your neck as he whispered, “I’m sorry. For everything. I know you hate me, but-”

“I don’t,” you interjected, twisting your neck to look at him in the dim light. “I did, I really did. But I don’t anymore.”

“You should. I hurt you so bad. I deserve your hate.”

You swallowed down the lump in your throat and looked away as you admitted aloud what you had known for a while. “I can’t hate you, Lan, not when I still love you.”

Lando froze still behind you and you weren’t sure if he was even breathing. “You still love me?” Disbelief, wonder, hope - it was so saturated in that question.

“I thought something terrible was going to happen to me tonight so I called you in case it was the last time I could. I didn’t want ‘I hate you’ to be my last words to you.”

Lando’s gut clenched at the thought and his arms tightened around you, crushing your back to his chest. “I wish you called sooner, I would come day or night to get you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do,” he said sadly. “Every weekend for the past five months I wonder if you are out drinking and clubbing. I know it’s not my place, and I lost all right to know where you are, but I need to know you safe, sweetheart. It kills me to think that there might be someone else looking out for you, because that was my job. It should still be my job, to protect you, because I love you too. I never stopped loving you.”

You squirmed in his arms but they were too tight to move. “Lan, I need you to let go of me,” you murmured.

“I’ve tried, but I can’t. I can’t give up on us.”

“Lan.”

His breath was shaky but he released his tight grip on you, despite his desire to keep you close. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

He started to pull away but you finally had room to move and followed. “Lando! Come back, you muppet. I just wanted to see your face without breaking my neck,” you laughed.

He paused, a little from appearing between his brows. “Let go…oh…” His eyes lit up even in the dark room and he bundled you back into his arms. “Muppet is my word.”

You nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck and inhaled his scent. “I stole it too, like your hoodies.”

“I was a muppet so you can have it this time.” He pulled back so he could find your eyes. “Where does this leave us?”

“You broke my trust.” You felt him deflate at the words. “But when I needed you, you came.”

“You called.”

Your chest felt light with emotion those two words brought and you combed your fingers into his dark curls. “I don’t know where this leaves us but what I do know is that I really want you to kiss me.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Now? Are you sure? It might just be the adrena-”

“Shut up and kiss me, Lan.”

He didn’t need to be told a third time.

[dedalvs]

Today is my 44th birthday. I was brought to my mother’s arms as Ronald Reagan was being sworn in and then went to the airport to welcome the Iranian hostages home—a meeting we now know was pre-arranged, as Reagan’s team negotiated to keep the hostages in captivity a little bit longer just so it could be Reagan, as opposed to Carter, who got the credit for releasing them.

Every four years my birthday falls on a US presidential inauguration. Some of those days are good; some are bad; some are terrible. Today is certainly one of the worst.

My birthday also sometimes falls on the day the US honors Martin Luther King, Jr.—or, when it doesn’t, always on a day very close to it. I always spend some time on my birthday thinking of him, too. Like all of us, he wasn’t perfect, but more and more what I think about regarding his legacy is how some of the things he said have been cherry-picked and stored like prize possessions in jeweled boxes for admiring every so often while the rest has been buried. MLK was an outspoken opponent of the Vietnam War, of income inequality, and of capitalism. Of all things I remember the first time I heard anything by him about that was in college when I happened into a record store in San Francisco and heard one of his speeches (not the “I have a dream” speech) remixed in a song.

Often you will hear that you should focus on what you can control. This is true, when it comes to your own personal well being—your state of mind. I feel like there should be a balance, though. Sometimes your well being is well enough that you can spare the anguish that comes with worrying about the state of the world—the many injustices you can’t fix, either by yourself or right away. We need that to push us to actually fix these things, either in small individual ways or collectively, through both direct and indirect action.

Each of us at different times in or lives—or on a micro level, at different times of the week or year—goes in and out of phases where we must focus on self-care and phases where we can look outward. Today I hope we can treat ourselves and each other with a little kindness when it comes to recognizing where it is we need to be in a given moment. Looking around on social media, it may seem that some are always on—always fighting, always pushing for change—and some are always off—cat memes, shipping, fandom. But that’s nothing but a small window into a person. First, that’s simply how that person interacts with one social media platform; it’s not their entire life. Second, it may be that this is the place they come to unwind—or, alternatively, this is the only place in their life where they can share the rage inside of them. Whoever they are, however they are, let them be, and offer them kindness. It’s going to take all of us to fight back.

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 2

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a–less–oblivious player. That’s it, that’s the plot. A/N: Ok, I’ve decided to make this by series, so this one’s just going to be purely Sylus. I hope nobody minds the specific names/places/etc. I wanted to create a personality for the “player” and add a bit of backstory work (loosely based on yours truly lol) for the sake of storytelling, but there won't be any distinct description of the player’s physical appearance <3 Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, bouts of delusion

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9

Riiiiing– RiiiNGGGGG––

...

“Huh… whazat—?” 

A shrill—earsplitting, headache-inducing, completely fucking loud—noise wakes you up rather rudely from your peaceful slumber at… Jesus Christ, what time is it? 

You blink your bleary eyes open, once… twice—fuck, all you know that it’s too goddamn early for all this ruckus. Groaning, you clumsily try to find the source of the unexpected wake-up call—quite literally in this case. 

Your hand bumps the vibrating phone straight off the edge of the mattress – along with the charger cord still attached to it – and you cuss up a storm when you hear it clatter on the hardwood floor.

The ringing finally stops, and you’re perfectly content to just leave it there and fall back to sleep when, not even ten seconds later, the blasted thing rings back to life, taunting you awake. 

Angrily, you wrestle against the threadbare blanket wrapped around your body like a warm cocoon, pushing yourself out of bed with all the rage of a sleep-deprived insomniac who’s been up til the buttcrack of dawn to grab your—huh, relatively intact—phone off the ground, while the charger cable swings haphazardly from the weight of the power brick on its tail end.  

Without checking the caller, you swipe right to answer. “What?” 

“Don’t use that tone on me, young lady,” Your mother grouses on the other end of the line. “It’s almost noon! Did you just wake up?” 

Barely five hours of sleep. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you shut your eyes and sigh. “No, mom. Sorry, just had a late night,” you clear your throat in an attempt to sound more composed. “What’s up?” 

“Oh, dear. Is it because of work again?” Something akin to sympathy replaces the sternness in her voice, and you dread the all-too-familiar spiel that comes next. “You know, honey, there’s a job opening for a– what was it again? I have to double check, but it’s where your Auntie Helen works. You know your Auntie Helen—” 

“Mom,” you interrupt, before she could go off on a tangent. “Work is fine, don’t worry. Why d’you call?” 

“Should I need a reason to call my only daughter who's living by her lonesome, a country away from—” 

“Mom!” 

“Oh, alright,” she finally relents, sounding slightly exasperated. “Were you able to book me and Jodie the roundtrip flight to Orlando? Your cousin’s wedding is barely a month away and I want all the documents ready by now, sweetie.” 

Shit. “Ah— yeah. I’ll email you the flight itinerary in a bit, I’m just–” you catch sight of your protruding hamper, innocuous but an eyesore nonetheless, right by the doorway of your humble studio unit. “I mean, I just left the condo. To do errands and stuff. I’ll send the details to you when I get back home, okay?” 

“Okay, honey,” she sighs. “You stay safe outside now. Don’t talk to strangers.” 

“I am a perfectly responsible adult—” The call disconnects. “Hello? Great.” 

You rub away the remnants of sleep from your eyes, fully aware that your day’s already started, despite your reluctance. Might as well get a head start on today’s agenda.

First thing’s first– brunch. Oh, it’s almost one. Lunch, then. I could maybe grab a hotdog from the corner store before heading to Landers. Oh wait, your laundry– gotta pass by the laundromat downstairs, too. Ugh, c’mon, chop-chop. 

Just as you’re about to stand up from your supine position on the floor, another ping! pulls your attention back to your phone. “Mom, I swear–” 

Ah, you’re finally awake. You’ve had a very long night, kitten. Take it easy for the day – make sure to get enough rest between errands.

I’ll know if you don’t.  

Your heart skips a beat.

Oh! Um. That’s… new. 

… Apparently another one on the growing list of “new features” from the latest update. It doesn't sound like an invitation for you to open the game, strangely enough. It's not a call to action to claim your daily stamina, nor a prompt for you to check your Galaxy Explorer rewards. 

It’s nothing more than a greeting, really. Just one that’s particularly targeted at you, with unnerving accuracy.

You recall the weird (?) events from last night, and the now-erratic beating of your heart suddenly picks up a notch. From the unexpected dialogues to the outrageous amount of dias you’ve somehow ended up with—something you still think is some kind of glitch in the system—you can’t shake the feeling that you’re living out the plot of a Black Mirror episode, as fucking dumb as that sounds. 

Not to mention during Quality Time, Sylus_v2.0 (as you so lovingly dub this version of him in your mind) had been acting more aware of you.

And you’re not talking about the pre-programmed glances that you usually get. No– it’s like he actually hears you. 

He doesn’t say anything. But whenever you make a comment, or utter something under your breath, he reacts with a huff or a hum–depending on the context. If it’s a slew of expletives aimed at your boss, the reaction you’re met with is one of amusement. A snort; sometimes a quiet laugh, if you’re lucky. When you say something self-deprecating, however, it elicits the heavier sighs, the sharp clicks of the tongue. 

At one point, you heard him make a low sound of dissent, something close to a... growl, almost, after making a casual joke about being just another cog in the machine and how offing yourself wouldn’t really matter in the grand scheme of late capitalism. As you oft do. 

Your eyes met, and for a split second, it felt like you weren’t looking at just pixels. His gaze weighed heavy on you–almost accusatory. 

It made you feel… naked, somehow. Perceived. 

You recall how quickly you averted your eyes from his, face flushing hotly from a feeling you couldn’t put into words. 

Bone-tired from last night’s (morning) overtime, you didn’t have the time to look up the news on this recent version update—although you really don’t remember any notifications in-game—so you quickly Google, “sylus acting sentient in rcent update loveamd Deepspace???” on your phone browser.

You scroll down for a bit, but none of the search results yield any relevancy, nor are they in any way similar to your current… predicament. 

(Okay, so calling it a predicament is a little unfair. You’re not exactly complaining about anything per se. No complaints from you. At all.)

Deciding that you’d do a deeper dive on Twitter (X) at a later time instead – probably tonight when you do your daily login – you briefly press the side button to lock your phone… not without a final peek at the banner notification from Sylus. 

You press your lips together in an effort to hold back the stupid giggle bubbling up your throat. 

Unfortunately, all the self-control in the world can’t help you and your need to have the last word—from what even—so you ask aloud, to no one except the person you've deluded yourself into thinking is a valid recipient of your one-sided conversation: 

“... Yeah? And what if I don’t?” 

You’re not really waiting for a response (or were you?), but the nervous flutter in your stomach betrays the impatience you're trying to mask with casual indifference. It’s small, unassuming–but there. 

Impatient for what, exactly, you’re not sure. But maybe, just maybe—

Feeling a bit braver now, are we? How bold. Care to say that to my face, sweetheart?

Oh. 

Oh.

An inhuman noise escapes your throat, embarrassingly loud, almost a keen, and you fumble with the device in your hand; the new banner notification still in full view—taunting you. 

You don’t know what to think, you don’t know how to feel. You–

Spring up, like an agitated jack-in-a-box, and the sudden rush of blood in your head leaves you dizzy. You’re a molotov cocktail of emotions; one more bombshell dropped on you and you might just blow. 

“I’m– later, okay? Uh,” Whew, girl, keep it together. “I need–I need to go.” You almost stumble as you speed walk towards the bathroom.

-

-

-

If you didn’t switch your phone to silent, didn’t make the conscious effort to ignore any incoming messages, notifications, and whatever else, in a rush to get dressed and go about your day as if it's just like any other weekend–nope, nothing unusual here–you would’ve seen one last cheeky reply:

Of course, sweetie. You take care now. 

Don’t talk to strangers. X

Endnote: This one's pretty short, but I’m world-building, trust. 

Thanks for reading! 

[juletheghoul]

The General

a/n: So, the Roman got me. It was to be expected, honestly lol. I am well aware we know practically nothing about this character but I couldn't help myself. I wrote reader as a slave here, if you aren't into that - no worries. This is un beta-ed, any mistakes are my own. Shout out to @foli-vora for letting me flood her with my thoughts and ideas and for helping me flesh it out🩷 Hopefully you enjoy!

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, some dirty talk, creampie, alcohol, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance) one creepy dude making a pass, Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus, let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 1.6k

reblogs are appreciated

Series masterlist Masterlist next chapter; the baths

He comes through the tent flap late into the night, covered in blood, grime, and rage, and yet - you are there to greet him. The gods have seen it fit to bestow him with another day of victory, another day of life and with that life, comes his expectations of you.

You rush to pour the water you’ve kept hot at his fire into the basin he uses to wash, eyes scanning quickly for the clean linens he uses to cleanse himself of the gore of battle, and making yourself scarce once the basin is full.

He says nothing, but he has no need to. 

You watch from your place at the edge of his vision, every nerve and receptor in your body honed to anticipate his needs. 

His armor needs to be cleaned before first light, thank the Gods I didn’t fall asleep. I will need to mend the tear in his tunic as well–

His hand shot out, face up towards you, interrupting your mental tally of his state but your body responds quicker than your mind and you’re there in an instant, placing the clean linen into his dampened hand. Still, he says nothing. 

You move towards his table while he finishes, shuffling his maps and well laid battle plans with great care in order to set out the olives and cheese he likes, the crusty bread and the dark wine he prefers. 

“General.” The gruff voice at the tent flap scares you half to death, but you don’t cry out. You’re too well-trained for that. A few of his soldiers stand at the threshold. “We wish to share a cup, a toast to your victory.” They are eager, the red glint of blood still fresh in their eyes. 

He grunts in response, but gestures to his table before giving you a pointed look. You rush to fetch more cups, setting them down at the extra places at his table. They are all seated by the time you finish pouring for them, and with another glance from Marcus–your general–you move to fetch more food from his stores. 

They’re raucous, the heat of the battle still coursing through their veins. Where Marcus is focused on calming the blood, they are eager to stoke the fire. They are either oblivious to his dark mood, or unbothered by it. 

“More wine!” One of them cries out, despite the way the General’s jaw clenches. You hurry to comply, pouring into the younger man's cup without spilling. “You are lucky General Acacius, a pretty, young, thing like this waiting to warm your bed of a night,” he leers up at you, his gaze slipping across your body like eels in a bowl, “would you share your wealth, I wonder.” His other hand slides up the back of your thigh causing you to gasp, his touch wholly unwelcome. 

“If you would like to keep your hands, I suggest you keep them to yourself.” His voice cuts through the air, “Come girl, take my cup away. I have no taste for wine just now.” You move away from the unwanted touch and towards Marcus, avoiding his eyes to complete the task at hand. “Go now, all of you. I will see you in the morning.” He moves from his place at the table, and if the others are unwilling to comply, they make no mention of it. The table is clear by the time he comes back, absent unwanted company. 

He says nothing while removing his armor, but you rush to his side to assist anyway, carefully putting the pieces aside to clean. 

The mood shifts, and his gaze now bores into you, and your heart races to feel it. Where the other man's eyes made your skin crawl, Marcus’ eyes feel like a caress. You feel them on the slit in your tunic, where your thigh is exposed. You feel them on your chest when you turn towards him to help take his chest plate off. 

Goose flesh spreads like a stain across your skin, and your cunt weeps for him, betraying any thoughts that you might not want what he quite obviously wants to give you. The proof of it tenting his tunic when the leather Pteruges are removed.

Those brutal hands, the ones that’d been covered in blood and grime not an hour past, now grab onto your hips, the grip hard enough to bruise. The thin linen shift does nothing to insulate you from his heat, does nothing to dull the press of his want against your belly. Any doubts swimming in your mind about crossing this line with him–again–are silenced when the linen is all but ripped off, leaving you almost shivering in his arms. 

The arousal is something fierce, an entity all in its own and it responds to his brusque movements with a perverse glee. It sets your nerves alight, drips down onto your thighs as he herds you towards his bed mat. His intensity infects you, it strengthens your grip, you’d swear it sharpened your nails by the way you rip at the very tunic you’re going to have to mend.

You land on your back amongst his linens and he’s quick to follow you there. It takes less than a breath for him to shrug everything off, both of you as nude as the day you were born. 

“Open your legs.” His voice is gruff, and thick with want, the same want that smears fat pearly drops against the skin of your thigh. 

Your nipples harden, drawing both his eye, and his mouth as you hurry to comply. He bites, pulling a gasp from your lips. His tongue quickly soothes it though, this is his pattern, an addictive balance of pain and pleasure. First one breast, then the other gets his attention, but only briefly, his desire burns too brightly. 

You only manage to pull his face up to yours before his cock finally slips into your wet heat, feeding a gasp directly into his mouth when you take his kiss with a force to rival his own. 

The size of him always shocks you into silence. He isn’t the first man to have you this way, your chastity had been gone long before you came into his service; you were glad of it to feel the way he molded you to accept him though. Now, and every time he’s been inside you. 

His stroke is brutal, it’s hard, and rough and all but moves you higher onto his mat. It’s perfect.

Your knees hitch high onto his hips, just as he raises one knee to press against the back of your thigh for purchase and it pays off because he finds the spot that makes you keen. 

He lets out a breathy laugh, relishing the state of you and the euphoria of your climax is far too close to feel any shame. Instead your cunt floods him, the slip of him moving so noisy and vulgar and welcome and blissful it pushes you closer still.

“More, please—“ you moan out the words, the first words you’ve spoken to him since he’d returned from a day of violence and he corrects you even now. 

“More what,” he grunts, anger and ecstasy shining on his visage, “speak correctly, girl.” His voice is clipped, his movements faltering and you know he’s close.

“More please, Dominus.” They’re a whimper, and he responds to them just how you hoped he might. He moves quickly and for a moment you can see how he’s earned his reputation, agile and smooth and within a moment he sits back on his haunches, pulling your hips up to meet his thrusts. 

You don’t know whether to scream, or weep, either way you thank the Gods for putting you in this man’s way. The pleasure is peppered with pain where his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, and you know you will feel the ache of holding them open tomorrow, but it’s so hard to care when it feels so good.

The precipice looms, the shadow of the climax clouding anything and everything and when you reach down towards where you’re spread wide, it only takes a couple of quick, wet circles at your clit to float away.

He groans, hips stuttering and you know you’ve taken him over the edge with you, you can feel the evidence of it painting your insides. His eyes glaze over as he watches himself fill you to the brim, slack-jaw and drunk on his orgasm and your flesh on display for him. 

“I expect you to remain full of my gift-“ his tone is filthy, lust and victory of a different kind on his features as he grinds himself deeper, “until I take you again.” He hisses the last few words out, pulling his softening cock out to inspect his mess. “Am I understood?”

“Yes Dominus.” The words are sweet as summer fruit on your tongue, eager to please him.

He smiles, but it’s predatory and it makes you clench around nothing, your body betraying your words when you feel his spend dripping out in front of his eyes.

He tsks, pushing it back in with thick fingers.

“You are well aware I don’t tolerate such insolence.” His eyes narrow, but his mood is still playful, removing his fingers from your cunt, only to stick them in your mouth. “Now, get some rest. I expect you up at first light.” He speaks with absolute authority as you suck his fingers clean, and nod.

------

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