#men are entitled to nothing from us

[aishabellasbigblogofeverything]

I love it when women hate men. I love it when women are allowed to vent to each other about how horrible and creepy men are. I love it when women form friendships with and prioritize each other over relationships with men(whether they're attracted to them or not). I love it when women put men dni in their bios and on their nude photos and on posts on their blogs. I love it when women refuse to mollycoddle and accommodate entitled male feelings with "but this doesn't mean I hate all men, I know a few men who are great, I love my father/sons/brothers/uncles/male cousins/guy friends" I love it when women complain about men WITHOUT "not all men" being a disclaimer. I love it when women avoid socializing with/refuse to be around/befriend/get close to men because they know men can't be trusted. I love it when women make "kill all men" jokes. I love it when women offer absolutely no concern or care for men's feelings and if their misandry offends men whatsoever because why should we, men are the oppressor class who have raped and killed and abused us and kept us as subjugated as second-class citizens for millennia, they regularly mistreat us and the women in their own marginalized communities still every single day and make this world so much harder and more awful for us to be in, and if we choose to hate them and not spare them any sympathy then so be it, and I don't just mean "men as a class" either, you can be a woman who doesn't want to have anything to do with any man on an individual basis and completely cuts off men from her personal life too and ykw I will love and fucking support you in that because men deserve absolutely NOTHING from us. If they're so tough and strong then they can handle it just like they can handle being lonely. If you are a woman who hates men, ESPECIALLY IF YOU ARE A LESBIAN AND/OR A TRANS WOMAN, then just know that I love you. I love you, I support you, and you are safe here.

[coochiequeens]

These men just don't want to be around kids otherwise they would be the fun uncle, volunteer for Big Brothers and Big Sisters, be ok with dating women with kids and have a good relationship with the step kids. They just think they were entitled to biological offspring.

Amelia Hill

@byameliahillMon 28 Aug 2023 11.00 EDT

Father’s Day is dangerous for Robert Nurden. Childless not through choice but, as he puts it, “complacency, bad luck, bad judgment”, he tries to stay indoors and ignore the family celebrations outside.

But one year, he went for a walk. “I met family after family. There were children everywhere,” he remembered. “It was terrible. Just so painful. So many ambushes and triggers for my anguish.”

There is very little research into men who have not had children, although that is beginning to change. Research by Dr Robin Hadley has found that 25% of men over 42 do not have children – 5% more than women of the same age group.

Half of the men who are not fathers but wanted to be describe a huge grief and isolation from society. Almost 40% have experienced depression and a quarter feel a deep anger

Now 72, Nurden had a sheltered upbringing. Reaching adulthood, there was a lot he wanted to experience. “Having children was a very low priority. I was complacent: I just assumed it would happen,” he said.

It was not until he was in his early 40s that Nurden started to get broody. But by that point, he discovered, women of a similar age had already had children, if they were able or wanted to.

“I went into this 15-year period of not going into relationships or ending relationships quickly because I knew that person wasn’t going to want or be able to have a child with me – or that the relationship wasn’t going to be strong enough to last if we did have a child,” said Nurden.

He said high-profile older fathers breed complacency in ordinary men. “If I’m honest, even when I was in my 50s I believed that it might happen for me. But in real life, the Mick Jagger and Jon Snow-age fathers are actually very rare – and in any case, it’s medically not wise, as regards sperm quality.”

What compounded Nurden’s pain was that there was no public or private discussion about how men feel when circumstance leaves them unable to become fathers.

“There’s lots of publicity, quite rightly, about women and childlessness but men are very mute about this. Married men don’t want to hear it either: I’ve had men with children react with anger, as though they feel threatened, when I’ve tried to talk about my pain,” he said.

“I was mute too until recently, because as I aged, I found the regret grew into a great pain,” he added. “Unlike many other forms of grief, this compounds itself as it gets older: I wasn’t a father but now I’m not a grandfather. When I’m even older, I might find myself entirely alone.”

Nurden has published a book, I Always Wanted to be a Dad: Men Without Children, about his story and that of some other men. “It turns out that there is a lot of pain, regret and sadness out there,” he said.

Hadley, the researcher, is childless because although his wife had wanted children, by the time she and Hadley met, her age meant the risk of having one was too great. “I chose love but that doesn’t make the pain of not having children any less,” he said. “When a close colleague had his first child, I was so jealous that I couldn’t be in the same room as him.”

Being a father is a marker of status in many countries, said Hadley, but not in the west. “While there has recently been a lot more public discussion about how to be a good father, we still don’t have any narrative or celebration about how important it is for men to become a father in the first place,” he said.

Paul Goulden, the chair of Ageing Without Children, said that, along with the lack of public dialogue about becoming a father, he was “not convinced that there’s this Game of Thrones genetic push felt by men to have children”.

Instead, he said: “There’s this mistaken belief that men are fertile across their lifespan, so there’s no imperative to get on with it.”

That complacency persists because men without children historically have not spoken about their grief. But, Goulden said: “I hope Robert’s book will trigger a change in public dialogue around this issue. I think there’s an overwhelming sense of loneliness and fear out there about who is going to be there for these men, when they’re old and all alone.”

I wonder what their exes for these men would about them. Because the bar for Father's is so low that women showing they didn't want kids with them should really be a sign to do some soul searching.

Personal experience.......I think of my ex fiance who constantly said he wanted ro get married and have kids. However his actions said he wanted me to have the kids while he worked full time, he didn't believe in daycare so no job for me, and he would have to go to the gym almost everyday, he had a physically demanding job, and of course have his weekly card night with his buddies. And yes I stated all my objections but he had tunnel vision when it came to his fantasy family life. There's more but those were the issues relevant to this article.

[poems-of-a-lover]

i will never understand the "stop casting straight actors as gay characters" argument. people just wanna out gay actors so they can have a better grasp on who to hate.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

i mean this amongst the material where we were Ever supposed to be at all on the same page about axe & wendy's nightmare quasiromance including that it was after the vicious pettiness stalking & relationship sabotaging from axe that we got the warmest & fuzziest rather than wendy finally reaching a breaking point, or know that it's not great if prince goes around taking advantage of young employees his kid's age but we would never disrespect that person by calling them a victim and also we can't even think too badly of him until he outright confirms (rudely!) he feels entitled, and then we also will actually do nothing about this save for eventually saying actually it looks bad if his wife also has sex outside the marriage, which would defy his entitlement

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Retiring the US debt would retire the US dollar

THIS WEDNESDAY (October 23) at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

One of the most consequential series of investigative journalism of this decade was the Propublica series that Jesse Eisinger helmed, in which Eisinger and colleagues analyzed a trove of leaked IRS tax returns for the richest people in America:

https://www.propublica.org/series/the-secret-irs-files

The Secret IRS Files revealed the fact that many of America's oligarchs pay no tax at all. Some of them even get subsidies intended for poor families, like Jeff Bezos, whose tax affairs are so scammy that he was able to claim to be among the working poor and receive a federal Child Tax Credit, a $4,000 gift from the American public to one of the richest men who ever lived:

https://www.propublica.org/article/the-secret-irs-files-trove-of-never-before-seen-records-reveal-how-the-wealthiest-avoid-income-tax

As important as the numbers revealed by the Secret IRS Files were, I found the explanations even more interesting. The 99.9999% of us who never make contact with the secretive elite wealth management and tax cheating industry know, in the abstract, that there's something scammy going on in those esoteric cults of wealth accumulation, but we're pretty vague on the details. When I pondered the "tax loopholes" that the rich were exploiting, I pictured, you know, long lists of equations salted with Greek symbols, completely beyond my ken.

But when Propublica's series laid these secret tactics out, I learned that they were incredibly stupid ruses, tricks so thin that the only way they could possibly fool the IRS is if the IRS just didn't give a shit (and they truly didn't – after decades of cuts and attacks, the IRS was far more likely to audit a family earning less than $30k/year than a billionaire).

This has become a somewhat familiar experience. If you read the Panama Papers, the Paradise Papers, Luxleaks, Swissleaks, or any of the other spectacular leaks from the oligarch-industrial complex, you'll have seen the same thing: the rich employ the most tissue-thin ruses, and the tax authorities gobble them up. It's like the tax collectors don't want to fight with these ultrawealthy monsters whose net worth is larger than most nations, and merely require some excuse to allow them to cheat, anything they can scribble in the box explaining why they are worth billions and paying little, or nothing, or even entitled to free public money from programs intended to lift hungry children out of poverty.

It was this experience that fueled my interest in forensic accounting, which led to my bestselling techno-crime-thriller series starring the two-fisted, scambusting forensic accountant Martin Hench, who made his debut in 2022's Red Team Blues:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865847/red-team-blues

The double outrage of finding out how badly the powerful are ripping off the rest of us, and how stupid and transparent their accounting tricks are, is at the center of Chokepoint Capitalism, the book about how tech and entertainment companies steal from creative workers (and how to stop them) that Rebecca Giblin and I co-authored, which also came out in 2022:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

Now that I've written four novels and a nonfiction book about finance scams, I think I can safely call myself a oligarch ripoff hobbyist. I find this stuff endlessly fascinating, enraging, and, most importantly, energizing. So naturally, when PJ Vogt devoted two episodes of his excellent Search Engine podcast to the subject last week, I gobbled them up:

https://www.searchengine.show/listen/search-engine-1/why-is-it-so-hard-to-tax-billionaires-part-1

I love the way Vogt unpacks complex subjects. Maybe you've had the experience of following a commentator and admiring their knowledge of subjects you're unfamiliar with, only have them cover something you're an expert in and find them making a bunch of errors (this is basically the experience of using an LLM, which can give you authoritative seeming answers when the subject is one you're unfamiliar with, but which reveals itself to be a Bullshit Machine as soon as you ask it about something whose lore you know backwards and forwards).

Well, Vogt has covered many subjects that I am an expert in, and I had the opposite experience, finding that even when he covers my own specialist topics, I still learn something. I don't always agree with him, but always find those disagreements productive in that they make me clarify my own interests. (Full disclosure: I was one of Vogt's experts on his previous podcast, Reply All, talking about the inkjet printerization of everything:)

https://gimletmedia.com/shows/reply-all/brho54

Vogt's series on taxing billionaires was no exception. His interview subjects (including Eisinger) were very good, and he got into a lot of great detail on the leaker himself, Charles Littlejohn, who plead guilty and was sentenced to five years:

https://jacobin.com/2023/10/charles-littlejohn-irs-whistleblower-pro-publica-tax-evasion-prosecution

Vogt also delved into the history of the federal income tax, how it was sold to the American public, and a rather hilarious story of Republican Congressional gamesmanship that backfired spectacularly. I'd never encountered this stuff before and boy was it interesting.

But then Vogt got into the nature of taxation, and its relationship to the federal debt, another subject I've written about extensively, and that's where one of those productive disagreements emerged. Yesterday, I set out to write him a brief note unpacking this objection and ended up writing a giant essay (sorry, PJ!), and this morning I found myself still thinking about it. So I thought, why not clean up the email a little and publish it here?

As much as I enjoyed these episodes, I took serious exception to one – fairly important! – aspect of your analysis: the relationship of taxes to the national debt.

There's two ways of approaching this question, which I think of as akin to classical vs quantum physics. In the orthodox, classical telling, the government taxes us to pay for programs. This is crudely true at 10,000 feet and as a rule of thumb, it's fine in many cases. But on the ground – at the quantum level, in this analogy – the opposite is actually going on.

There is only one source of US dollars: the US Treasury (you can try and make your own dollars, but they'll put you in prison for a long-ass time if they catch you.).

If dollars can only originate with the US government, then it follows that:

a) The US government doesn't need our taxes to get US dollars (for the same reason Apple doesn't need us to redeem our iTunes cards to get more iTunes gift codes);

b) All the dollars in circulation start with spending by the US government (taxes can't be paid until dollars are first spent by their issuer, the US government); and

c) That spending must happen before anyone has been taxed, because the way dollars enter circulation is through spending.

You've probably heard people say, "Government spending isn't like household spending." That is obviously true: households are currency users while governments are currency issuers.

But the implications of this are very interesting.

First, the total dollars in circulation are:

a) All the dollars the government has ever spent into existence funding programs, transferring to the states, and paying its own employees, minus

b) All the dollars that the government has taxed away from us, and subsequently annihilated.

(Because governments spend money into existence and tax money out of existence.)

The net of dollars the government spends in a given year minus the dollars the government taxes out of existence that year is called "the national deficit." The total of all those national deficits is called "the national debt." All the dollars in circulation today are the result of this national debt. If the US government didn't have a debt, there would be no dollars in circulation.

The only way to eliminate the national debt is to tax every dollar in circulation out of existence. Because the national debt is "all the dollars the government has ever spent," minus "all the dollars the government has ever taxed." In accounting terms, "The US deficit is the public's credit."

When billionaires like Warren Buffet tell Jesse Eisinger that he doesn't pay tax because "he thinks his money is better spent on charitable works rather than contributing to an insignificant reduction of the deficit," he is, at best, technically wrong about why we tax, and at worst, he's telling a self-serving lie. The US government doesn't need to eliminate its debt. Doing so would be catastrophic. "Retiring the US debt" is the same thing as "retiring the US dollar."

So if the USG isn't taxing to retire its debts, why does it tax? Because when the USG – or any other currency issuer – creates a token, that token is, on its face, useless. If I offered to sell you some "Corycoins," you would quite rightly say that Corycoins have no value and thus you don't need any of them.

For a token to be liquid – for it to be redeemable for valuable things, like labor, goods and services – there needs to be something that someone desires that can be purchased with that token. Remember when Disney issued "Disney dollars" that you could only spend at Disney theme parks? They traded more or less at face value, even outside of Disney parks, because everyone knew someone who was planning a Disney vacation and could make use of those Disney tokens.

But if you go down to a local carny and play skeeball and win a fistful of tickets, you'll find it hard to trade those with anyone outside of the skeeball counter, especially once you leave the carny. There's two reasons for this:

1) The things you can get at the skeeball counter are pretty crappy so most people don't desire them; and ' 2) Most people aren't planning on visiting the carny, so there's no way for them to redeem the skeeball tickets even if they want the stuff behind the counter (this is also why it's hard to sell your Iranian rials if you bring them back to the US – there's not much you can buy in Iran, and even someone you wanted to buy something there, it's really hard for US citizens to get to Iran).

But when a sovereign currency issuer – one with the power of the law behind it – demands a tax denominated in its own currency, they create demand for that token. Everyone desires USD because almost everyone in the USA has to pay taxes in USD to the government every year, or they will go to prison. That fact is why there is such a liquid market for USD. Far more people want USD to pay their taxes than will ever want Disney dollars to spend on Dole Whips, and even if you are hoping to buy a Dole Whip in Fantasyland, that desire is far less important to you than your desire not to go to prison for dodging your taxes.

Even if you're not paying taxes, you know someone who is. The underlying liquidity of the USD is inextricably tied to taxation, and that's the first reason we tax. By issuing a token – the USD – and then laying on a tax that can only be paid in that token (you cannot pay federal income tax in anything except USD – not crypto, not euros, not rials – only USD), the US government creates demand for that token.

And because the US government is the only source of dollars, the US government can purchase anything that is within its sovereign territory. Anything denominated in US dollars is available to the US government: the labor of every US-residing person, the land and resources in US territory, and the goods produced within the US borders. The US doesn't need to tax us to buy these things (remember, it makes new money by typing numbers into a spreadsheet at the Federal Reserve). But it does tax us, and if the taxes it levies don't equal the spending it's making, it also sells us T-bills to make up the shortfall.

So the US government kinda acts like classical physics is true, that is, like it is a household and thus a currency user, and not a currency issuer. If it spends more than it taxes, it "borrows" (issues T-bills) to make up the difference. Why does it do this? To fight inflation.

The US government has no monetary constraints, it can make as many dollars as it cares to (by typing numbers into a spreadsheet). But the US government is fiscally constrained, because it can only buy things that are denominated in US dollars (this is why it's such a big deal that global oil is priced in USD – it means the US government can buy oil from anywhere, not only the USA, just by typing numbers into a spreadsheet).

The supply of dollars is infinite, but the supply of labor and goods denominated in US dollars is finite, and, what's more, the people inside the USA expect to use that labor and goods for their own needs. If the US government issues so many dollars that it can outbid every private construction company for the labor of electricians, bricklayers, crane drivers, etc, and puts them all to work building federal buildings, there will be no private construction.

Indeed, every time the US government bids against the private sector for anything – labor, resources, land, finished goods – the price of that thing goes up. That's one way to get inflation (and it's why inflation hawks are so horny for slashing government spending – to get government bidders out of the auction for goods, services and labor).

But while the supply of goods for sale in US dollars is finite, it's not fixed. If the US government takes away some of the private sector's productive capacity in order to build interstates, train skilled professionals, treat sick people so they can go to work (or at least not burden their working-age relations), etc, then the supply of goods and services denominated in USD goes up, and that makes more fiscal space, meaning the government and the private sector can both consume more of those goods and services and still not bid against one another, thus creating no inflationary pressure.

Thus, taxes create liquidity for US dollars, but they do something else that's really important: they reduce the spending power of the private sector. If the US only ever spent money into existence and never taxed it out of existence, that would create incredible inflation, because the supply of dollars would go up and up and up, while the supply of goods and services you could buy with dollars would grow much more slowly, because the US government wouldn't have the looming threat of taxes with which to coerce us into doing the work to build highways, care for the sick, or teach people how to be doctors, engineers, etc.

Taxes coercively reduce the purchasing power of the private sector (they're a stick). T-bills do the same thing, but voluntarily (they the carrot).

A T-bill is a bargain offered by the US government: "Voluntarily park your money instead of spending it. That will create fiscal space for us to buy things without bidding against you, because it removes your money from circulation temporarily. That means we, the US government, can buy more stuff and use it to increase the amount of goods and services you can buy with your money when the bond matures, while keeping the supply of dollars and the supply of dollar-denominated stuff in rough equilibrium."

So a bond isn't a debt – it's more like a savings account. When you move money from your checking to your savings, you reduce its liquidity, meaning the bank can treat it as a reserve without worrying quite so much about you spending it. In exchange, the bank gives you some interest, as a carrot.

I know, I know, this is a big-ass wall of text. Congrats if you made it this far! But here's the upshot. We should tax billionaires, because it will reduce their economic power and thus their political power.

But we absolutely don't need to tax billionaires to have nice things. For example: the US government could hire every single unemployed person without creating inflationary pressure on wages, because inflation only happens when the US government tries to buy something that the private sector is also trying to buy, bidding up the price. To be "unemployed" is to have labor that the private sector isn't trying to buy. They're synonyms. By definition, the feds could put every unemployed person to work (say, training one another to be teachers, construction workers, etc – and then going out and taking care of the sick, addressing the housing crisis, etc etc) without buying any labor that the private sector is also trying to buy.

What's even more true than this is that our taxes are not going to reduce the national debt. That guest you had who said, "Even if we tax billionaires, we will never pay off the national debt,"" was 100% right, because the national debt equals all the money in circulation.

Which is why that guest was also very, very wrong when she said, "We will have to tax normal people too in order to pay off the debt." We don't have to pay off the debt. We shouldn't pay off the debt. We can't pay off the debt. Paying off the debt is another way of saying "eliminating the dollar."

Taxation isn't a way for the government to pay for things. Taxation is a way to create demand for US dollars, to convince people to sell goods and services to the US government, and to constrain private sector spending, which creates fiscal space for the US government to buy goods and services without bidding up their prices.

And in a "classical physics" sense, all of the preceding is kinda a way of saying, "Taxes pay for government spending." As a rough approximation, you can think of taxes like this and generally not get into trouble.

But when you start to make policy – when you contemplate when, whether, and how much to tax billionaires – you leave behind the crude, high-level approximation and descend into the nitty-gritty world of things as they are, and you need to jettison the convenience of the easy-to-grasp approximation.

If you're interested in learning more about this, you can tune into this TED Talk by Stephanie Kelton, formerly formerly advisor to the Senate Budget Committee chair, now back teaching and researching econ at University of Missouri at Kansas City:

https://www.ted.com/talks/stephanie_kelton_the_big_myth_of_government_deficits?subtitle=en

Stephanie has written a great book about this, The Deficit Myth:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/14/everybody-poops/#deficit-myth

There's a really good feature length doc about it too, called "Finding the Money":

https://findingmoneyfilm.com/

If you'd like to read more of my own work on this, here's a column I wrote about the nature of currency in light of Web3, crypto, etc:

https://locusmag.com/2022/09/cory-doctorow-moneylike/

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

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/2024/10/21/we-can-have-nice-things/#public-funds-not-taxpayer-dollars

[targaryenluvs]

RAVAGE

pairing: dark!president!coriolanus snow x innocent!wife!reader

summary: he’d won the election, much to your elation. now you’d have to navigate the fame, fortune and status as the first lady of panem. but coriolanus just wanted you all to himself, and he’d do anything to scare you into his arms.

warnings: possessiveness, murder, robbery, bad smut, controlling, tears, babying, kisses, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, kinda subby corio/dom, praise, sense of entitlement? breeding kink, tummy bulge, overstimulation, little bit of aftercare

word count: 2k

a/n: i’m such a bitch for making everyone wait so long for a delicate part two 😌 and i finally have the confidence for smut so heheh - yes i’m using tvd names a lot - corio/coryo use - tried out a new layout 👀

part one of delicate

you couldn’t believe it.

coriolanus snow, president of panem.

all of his hard work has finally paid off and you couldn’t be more happy for him. you wanted to give him a gift but you still had no idea what he would want. it seemed the two of you practically had everything overnight, so a measly gift seemed to be difficult to acquire, one that he liked? even harder.

so you’d decided to go out, the idea of surprising him exciting you so much you’d forgotten to tell coriolanus where you were going to.

so imagine his surprise when his assistant told him you’d left the house, viewing you on the security cameras.

which you had no idea were there.

coriolanus saw it as an act of defiance.

he had to move about this correctly, he couldn’t have you injured, but he needed to scare you back into his arms. to remind you of the horrible place that panem was.

over twelve stores, and nothing. so you’d decided to enlist the help of one of your few friends. “not a single clue of what he’d want?” elena asked as you stabbed at your fries, “nope.” you answered as you placed a fry in your mouth.

“well if he has absolutely everything then his gorgeous wife should be a nice gift after an extremely long day no?” you looked up at her, confused, “what do you mean?” she giggled, “oh god, i forget how you don’t know that much. you, y/n.” at your adorable puppy face she leaned in, “your body.” you jumped back at her words, “i… i’ve never.”

“you’ve never?!” elena slapped her hand over her mouth at your admission, “how? i mean you’re absolutely stunning sweetheart, how hasn’t he yet?” you played with the table cloth in your hands, “i don’t know.” elena twisted her fork around her pasta, “okay has he never made a move, or, have you never noticed the signs?” you took a sip of your wine as you stared back at her, “what signs?” elena sighed, rubbing her temple, “there are signs, moments. the two of you, sitting on the couch and his hand trails higher. his breath quickens at the sight of you in a dress. the little things.”

“and what happens if you notice these signs, act on them?” and this was exactly her expertise, she wiped her face with her napkin before paying the bill. “if i’m going to explain this in detail then we need to go to my house. or a dirtier part of town. my dear girl, i’m taking you to your first ever bar.”

coriolanus has to hold on to his mask of self-restraint, you’d been spotted at a bar, with one of your friends that he despised. but at least his plan could take full effect without a hitch.

your mind had been blown, irrevocably and utterly blown. the way elena had described it all, she made it sound like heaven. but she did tell you about other men, some care for themselves more so than the girl. and you had no clue what type of man corio was in bed.

you’d been so absorbed in your own thoughts you hadn’t noticed the man following you, not until he attacked you. he’d been going after your bag of course, but it was a gift from coriolanus. the man was unrelenting as he shoved you against the cold wall, grimy hands pushing and pulling with you as you tried to regain hold of your purse. “let go!” you cried out before he slammed you into the wall again, loosing grip on the purse coriolanus had just gifted you.

what would he say? it was his gift to you!

you woke up with a throbbing headache and corios hands brushing away strands from your face. “there you are sweet thing. you feeling okay?” you peered up at him, unable to move due to the millions of blankets on you. noticing your struggle he smiled before shifting them off, “better?” you nodded before sitting up with his help.

“corio, i lost the bag you gave me. the bad guy he- i’m so so sorry. please don’t be mad with me i didn’t mean to-“ he laughed, although it didn’t reach his eyes, “you think i care about the bag y/n/n? i could buy you a million bags, better bags. i’m just glad you’re okay. those guys, they won’t bother you again.” all you could do was sob and hug him, pondering the meaning of his words.

AN HOUR AGO

“hey, what the hell man? you said to attack the girl and take the bag!” the man shouted as coriolanus undid his cuffs, adjusted his sleeve, pushing it back on both arms. “i told you to go for the bag, yes. but i specifically remember drilling it into your head not to hurt her. and now she’s lying in bed, has been for the past three house with bruises everywhere. and for that?”

shouts and screams of pain echoed through the abandoned building as coriolanus struck the man with a hammer, over and over and over. the job had one guideline. and this idiot couldn’t get it right.

don’t hurt his delicate girl.

PRESENT

you’d been so absorbed with worrying over the purse and apologising for your tears you hadn’t noticed corios hungry eyes. “i really did like that purse.” he murmured, “oh corio, i should’ve tried harder to keep it. what can i do?” hook, line and sinker. he had you where he wanted and he’d finally get what he deserved.

“let me fuck you. please.” and who were you to say no? your naivety led to him laying you down on the bed, head between your thighs. you’d heard about it from elena, a man pleasuring a woman, but it was a million times better than you could’ve imagined. coriolanus was messy, and desperate. he’d been waiting for so long and god was it worth it.

his heart raced with both excitement and nervousness as he held your thighs in his own hands, tracing up and downwards, feeling the warmth against his own skin. coriolanus couldn't resist the opportunity to tease you. “you wanna cum?” corio mumbled as he continued sucking on your swollen clit, “mhm.” you could hear him laughing at your pathetic excuse of agreeing.

coriolanus wholeheartedly believes you belong to him. the second you were married, and even before, you were his. your submission would prove it, and he would do anything for it. you were his and he was yours. his bold blue eyes ravished you, all of you, “who’s making you feel this good?” your hips squirmed away from him but he just pulled you back, pushing two fingers into you.

corio reveled in your naivety, the way you responded to his touch, the way you whispered dirty words as if it were a sin. and right now, you still couldn’t bring yourself to name what you needed. his pace was brutal as he lapped at your cunt, a third finger curling inside of you as they went in and out. your gasps and cries were music to his ears, he’d been denied this all too long, and he wasn’t sure how he’d ever done it. “cmon, say it.” and you did, over and over again. “it’s you! you, coryo.”

“coryo, ah, your fingers feel so good,” you mewled, tilting your hips more trying to lean into his touch. coryo withdrew his fingers to play with your clit, rubbing circles around your sensitive nub that resulted in you crying out in pleasure.

“such a good girl, getting all wet for me,” you nodded along dumbly, “for you, all you.” you babbled as he kissed you deeply.

coryos hand dragged up and down your folds, “your pussy is soaked, baby. look at that,” you whined at the feeling of him not touching you, your cheeks flushed at the sight of your arousal. coryo pulled his pants down, throwing them away over his shoulder. you hid your head into the pillow as coryo tutted, “you have to look pretty girl, look at the mess you made.” coryo taunted as he rubbed your slick juices all over his dick, trying to humiliate you, get a rise out of you. coryos hand holds onto your neck, tightening as you clutched on with both hands, “please, coryo, i’ll be so good.” he rested his forehead on yours, noses touching.

“i love you, i love you, i love you.” he whispered in your ear, “my beautiful wife, you’d look so good with my baby in you.” the idea of having his baby had you pressing your lips to his as he bit down on your lower lip, making you gasp as your lips part, his tongue pushing inside your mouth, exploring every bit of you he’d ever wished to. his hunger hadn’t fallen, only increased.

“ i need to fuck you,” he panted, you having stolen his breath. coryo teased your folds with the head of his cock, “need to fill up this pretty little pussy of yours,” he pushed into you, warm walls coating his cock as he groaned, “you feel so good.” he moaned into your neck as your hands clutched onto his broad shoulders. he wasn’t sure if he’d last long but then again he didn’t care, it’s not like you knew it was a short time.

the way you clenched down on him was more than enough proof of your virginity. your cries fueled him on as he pinned your hips down into the mattress, rutting against you wildly. “you feel that?” he was everywhere, filling you up. his dick making an appearance through the bulge in your tummy. “uh-huh. too much i can’t-” he stopped you before you could finish by pressing down on it with his palm, “yes you can baby.” you shook your head, “coryo i can’t, you feel too good.” you begin, crying from how good he was making you feel, from how dumb and desperate he was making you.

“m’ gonna fill you up, gonna give you my baby.” he was driving you crazy, his heavy panting, hands on either side of your head, his voice was deep and filled with fire. “yes, yes please inside me.” coryo’s eyes squeezed shut and his brow furrowed you were too much, fuelled on by the idea of a pregnant wife, pregnant you. swollen belly, heavy breasts, relying on him to help you out of bed. his hips stuttered and faltered as he came inside you with a low groan. he didn’t care about pulling out and neither did you as your release came down on you again. “feels so good coryo, thank you.”

he couldn’t help his smile as you continued to thank him for making you feel so good. his ego was sure as hell swelling as he pulled out of you, collapsing on the bed. his hand caressed your face, kissing you all over, praising you.

“you did so well f’me. proud of you baby.” you grinned up at him as you snuggled into his neck. “only for you coryo.” all for him. “i’ll clean you up okay?” you nodded along as he got out of bed.

coriolanus deemed the night a success, but for some reason he didn’t feel complete. he wanted more. but as he looked up at your sleepy eyes and tired out body he wanted to let you rest. but the idea seemed to slip out of his head once he was levelled with your core again, his release spilling out of you and the warm towel forgotten. he didn’t stop himself when he began to lick at you, his tongue working his way into your entrance as your head shoved at his face.

“coryo, i’m sensitive. coryo please stop.” you attempted to crawl away but his hands dragged you to the edge of the bed, legs around his head. your body fell limp against the sheets as pleasure took over. your hands laced with his hair as you cried out.

it was going to be a long night.

[cvnntagious]

:: fratboy!chris hates to see rich!reader leave, but he loves to watch her go

chris was used to the usual attitude you threw around, choosing to deal with it as he saw fit whenever you'd get too mouthy with him or something. tonight, though, you were being particularly bratty— huffing and puffing for what he'd deemed no reason as you sat with your back pressed against him and your butt seated on his left leg, one of his hands curled snugly on your hip.

he chose to ignore the pout on your face, wanting you to be upfront with him about your problem. his attention stayed on the other frat brothers that lounged around on the couches of the house midday, all of them talking and laughing about stupid stuff as his fingers mindlessly drew shapes on your waist. it wasn't long before one of them began rolling up, planning to have a quick sesh while they were all free.

meanwhile, you were left to watch in annoyance until you spoke up about chris' ignorance. you weren't even sure why you showed up when he'd asked you to come over, you were already annoyed. all he wanted to do was get high. it's no wonder your dad had told you to stay away from the hockey boys when you enrolled in this college; they were all a bunch of lowlife losers.

as soon as chris leaned over the coffee table to grab the joint his friend had just rolled, holding you steady as he did so, you cleared your throat, brows raised in a snobbish manner. "do you mind?" you asked, tone laced with attitude as you turned your head to look him up and down. your entitlement was seeping through, and you knew it. you weren't used to not getting what you want.

his eyes flicked to meet yours immediately, head snapping in your direction as everyone went silent. chris let out a large breath as he leaned back into his seat, the rolled drug secured between his index and thumb. "y'alright?" he asked, playing oblivious to your clear annoyance with whatever he'd done to piss you off.

you immediately shook your head, glossy lips pursing. "i guess," you lied, despite the obvious indication you weren't 'alright', "but do you really think you need another one?" your head nodded towards his hand practically waving in front of your face, thinking back to when he'd been smoking when he called you earlier.

chris squinted his eyes at you, head sinking further back into the couch as he quickly realized why you were so upset. it was rare that he'd call you over when he was sober, but whenever he did, he usually ended up getting high later on anyway. it was like an endless cycle, and he hadn't even noticed the bitter taste you were getting in your mouth because of it.

"got nothing t'do with you, does it?" he then asked, knowing it'd only serve to get further on your nerves— but it was true. was he not allowed to say how he felt about the issue too?

with a smack of your lips, you scoffed at his response. 'unbelievable' was all you could think, and it was what you thought almost any time he'd say something so stupid. you didn't hesitate to stand from his lap, straightening out your outfit and picking up your dior purse once you'd done so. chris' expression quickly turned solemn, watching you angrily fumble to grab your things.

still, he remained seated, simply watching for a moment. he couldn't be bothered to deal with another one of your fits right now. it was only when he realized how dead serious you were that he spoke up: "c'mon, princess, don't be like that," he protested, free hand reaching out to tug at your wrist.

you scoffed again, flicking your wrist to rid yourself of his hand. that stupid fucking name - he only used it when he wanted to convince you of something. "no, m'good chris. you go ahead and have fun doing..." you looked around, handing over a judging look to each of the men seated around chris, "what you usually do."

he clicked his tongue, bringing the joint up to his lips when you began walking away. his eyes remained on you. the way your ass swayed in that leopard print skirt, a mixture of your heels and jewelry clanking and getting quieter the farther away you got from him.

finally, he heard the front door slam and he leaned his head back to exhale the smoke. "hey man, y'gonna go after her?" one of his peers finally asked, tension all throughout the group of people.

"nah, she'll come back. i'ma let her have this one."

w/c : 779

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Muña (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: At the start of the Dance of the Dragons, you host a familiar face. But it is not your husband who darkens your doorstep. It is his nephew.

Warnings: Daemon haunting the narrative. Smut. Body image issues, self-esteem issues. Tully! Reader (Reddish undertone hair) Implied mommy issues. Vaginal sex. Breeding kink

A/N: I got no explanation for this. Might end up writing a part 2 if this does well. Pt 2

“THERE IS a dragon at our gates.” One of your guards announces. You get up from your seat, a wave of nausea already beginning to make herself known. You would rather not face your husband. Not today. Not ever, if you are being truthful with yourself.

You have gained weight. The slim figure that you flaunted at sixteen is long gone. There is more weight in your hips and chest, a bit of softness around your middle. You know he will mock you for it.

“Open them.” You order, bracing yourself for the uncomfortable encounter. You can’t bar him entrance to what is his home too, despite him not visiting in years. “Tell him to leave the dragon there. I’ll send it some food.”

The guard bows and exits the room. One of your companions, Lady Whent, starts to pace the hall. She fears what your husband coming here might mean for you. The rumors said he had loudly proclaimed he would deal with you himself.

Your choice to keep the Riverlands out of the war effort is controversial, but predictable. Surely, no one in their right mind thought you would aid your husband install his Queen. Not even him. Not after he had left your shared home and started living in sin with her, shaming you in front of the whole realm. Yet again, no one would have called Daemon Targaryen the epitome of saneness.

You go sit on your throne, placing your embroidery aside. Your tenants are happy enough that you don’t hold court as often as the other lords. And when they are not, they still refuse to bring their problems to you unless absolutely necessary. No one wants to burden their poor lady more.

You wish they did. The days would seem less empty that way, rotting away in this castle, your house’s sigil mocking you from every corner. Family, Duty, Honor, they had promised you. None had come.

The guard comes back. You remain sitting on your throne, the one you hardly use. You intend to receive your husband from a position of power, not allow him to cower you. But when you look at the man next to the guard, your breath catches.

This man is not your husband. This man is not even one of Rhaenyra’s men.

“Lady Tully.” He says, taking a deep bow. Very respectful, which would make you doubt his relation to your husband were it not for the fact he shares his silver hair.

“Prince… Aemond.” You say, looking at his face. It’s your best guess as to his identity, considering he has a green banner and an eye patch. He wears all black, the color of House Targaryen. You stand up, and curtsy.

“My lady.”

“My husband is not here.” You say, hurriedly. It’s your first instinct. You do not want that dragon of his torching your tenants.“You are welcome to check the castle and my lands, but there is no love lost between us. I assure you I am not hiding him.”

“I know.” He answers, lips twitching into a smirk. You find nothing humorous about it, but you do not dare voice it. You do not understand what he is doing here, if not chasing after Daemon. “I understand your people… Resent him.”

“It is not our place to judge.” You say, voice firm. This man is at least ten years your junior, you will not allow him to intimidate you. No matter how he towers over you, no matter how menacing and mean his features seem. He is no Daemon Targaryen, this green boy. Your husband is the only man you had truly feared. “Only the Seven are perfect, and thus, entitled to judge others' actions.”

“Very devout.” Aemond steps closer to you, his smile widening. The way his face contorts, sharp and with too many teeth, reminds you of one of the piscivorous fishes you have seen swimming up the stream during summer. The look in their eyes is the same he sports now, right before they decide to feast on an unaware trout. “Just like us. Seems like we have a lot in common.”

You gulp. You wish you were less easy to intimidate.

“We do?”

“We do. I don’t like your husband either. The tales of his prowess have been overly exaggerated. And I do not think you are too keen on bowing to Rhaenyra, considering your marriage will be annulled.” A pair of his fingers pluck a stray curl from your up do, twirling it between his fingers. The slightly copperish undertones of it glint under the candlelight.

The threat looms in the air, uncontested by you. Both Prince Aemond and you know that Queen Rhaenyra would be dissolving your marriage as you speak, were it not for the fact that your husband and her need your lands and men for her war. Annulment in exchange for your life would be a much less cruel punishment than whatever they are cooking.

If you were a quieter woman, a less brave one, you would accept your fate. You would say your marriage had been unconsummated, that you will aid your new sovereign and your ex-husband in their war. But you won’t leave your people to their tender care. With the privileged position your lands have, they are also in the privileged position to be amongst the first to burn.

You are not so craven as to save your life in exchange for the ones of your subjects. Hence, neutrality. Hoping it will spare you. All of you.

“Do you think I want to still be married to him? After all this?” It is not enough, you see it now. With the green banner inside your hall, with the one eyed prince himself sent to rally you behind their cause. Neutrality won’t save you. You need to resist Daemon, not just sit praying he won’t attack you. The Seven know he has no such qualms.

“Perhaps we can make a widow out of you yet.” Aemond says to you, a hint of a smile making his expression turn even more menacing.

Tasting freedom on the tip of your tongue for the first time in years, you smile back.

YOU ARE on your side, Aemond thrusting into you from behind. His hand envelops your hip, greedily grasping your flesh. His other arm is under your head, serving as a pillow. For once, you are not self-conscious.

How could you be, when he had practically begged for entrance to your bed? He wanted you, and the thought of that was as thrilling as it was foreign. You hadn't broken your marriage vows ever since you took them. No man had dared voice interest, considering who your husband was.

Aemond had to convince you to get you here, and you had fumbled like a maiden every step of the way. You didn’t dare defy Daemon either. Despite your loneliness over the years, you had never taken another to your bed. No matter how tempted you had been.

When you had seen Aemond, you weren’t planning to, either. He was your good nephew, Daemon’s family. It was utterly scandalous, yet here you were.

You weren’t too sure how you had ended up into this predicament, though. One second the two of you had been making plans, your Lord Commander eager to be at his service, and the next, Aemond was crowding you against a wall and kissing you with unparalleled hunger. Your doubts had been quieted by his warm hands and eager mouth, as he forced you to writhe on his arms and try to divest him of his clothes. Perhaps he had carried you to your room then. You can’t remember, you just hope no one saw you.

“Did he fuck you like this?” He mouths at your ear, lightly biting. No matter how much you want to banish the thought of Daemon from your mind, Aemond doesn’t let you. It makes you feel guilty, breaking your self-imposed celibacy with your nephew in law, but he seems to get a secret thrill from it.

You don’t have the heart to tell him Daemon and you have only gone to bed together once. The night of your wedding.

You stay silent. His hand slides over your stomach, down to your mound. A single, long finger, slips through your folds and starts to rub circles on your pearl.

“Did my uncle ever make you peak?” Aemond asks you, still rubbing those maddening circles. You can’t think. All that is on your mind is a cloud of pleasure, warm and shameful. You shouldn’t be in bed with Daemon’s nephew. Nor should you be breaking your vows.

Aemond bites at your nape, sharply. Just like his uncle, he doesn’t take kindly to not being the center of attention.

“I asked you a question.”

“No.” You tell him, closing your eyes. Your face burns with your shame. Perhaps it is the embarrassment at your husband hating your bed so much he never visited It any longer, or perhaps it is the fact that you are breaking a vow you had really believed in. But Aemond doesn’t seem to like it, pressing soft kisses into your shoulder in an attempt to relax you.

“I'll give you one.” He promises, rubbing your pearl. His thrusting slows down, allowing the head of his member to hit deep inside you. “In my bed, you won't want for anything.”

The way he says it startles you. Dark, possessive. As if he doesn’t intend to let you go after one night, as if he intends to keep you.

“I don't belong in your bed.” You moan, trying to resist the pleasure that seems so sinful in your eyes. You clench around him despite it, not wanting him to leave your body. His free hand, the one serving as your pillow, grabs at your hair, the auburn mane as a bracelet in his pale arm. The pain of the tug only heightens your pleasure, making your body soar above the wave that threatens to crash and drag you under on the pools of hedonism.

Never before had you felt like this. In your encounter with your husband, as he huffed and puffed over you, you had only felt a quick pain and a vague feeling of shame. He had focused on his pleasure first, kicking you out of bed as soon as he was done.

But Aemond. Aemond stares at you, proud of how you unravel in his arms. He encourages you to do it, taking great delight in watching you fall apart.

“You do. With your gorgeous hair and your delicious cunt, I won't allow you to go elsewhere. You are a gift from the Mother herself.” He whispers, darkly. “I’ll worship you how you deserve, Muña.”

The last word seems to amuse him greatly, for it prompts a chuckle out of him. It’s an odd sound to hear coming from him. He seemed the kind who took himself too seriously. He licks at the shell of your ear, at your face, slobbering all over you.

It should disgust you, yet you can’t help but sigh in his arms. Surrender tastes cloyingly sweet in your mouth.

“I… Married.” You repeat, trying to get Aemond to see reason. You claw at his hands, trying to stop him from bringing you this overwhelming ecstasy that makes your body tense, and your thighs quiver. Your mind feels foggy, your wit reduced to half whimpers and softly spoken words.

“I'll wed you, and place my son on your belly.” He grins against your nape, contemplating his final triumph against Daemon. “My seed will take, where his never could. He is weak.”

“I am already married.” You repeat, a bit more firmly. Aemond laughs, rubbing at your pearl once more.

“Shhh, quiet. Quiet, Muña.” He whispers, pulling you to lie under him. He enters you in a single thrust, not giving you a moment of respite. You cry out, nails raking down his back. “I'll kill him. He is just an old man.”

You mutter something. Maybe a reply. Your lips move, incoherent, and you are screaming, the wave of pleasure finally crashing and pulling you under.

“That’s a good aunt. Squeeze your tight little cunt for me.” He grins, and you think this is it. The two of you are going to the Seven Hells.

[watcherintheweyr]

Green stans not understanding the reason alicent attacked rhaenyra at driftmark just proves media literacy is fucking dead.

She literally says it. "Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?" Because she's angry Rhaenyra didn't lay down to suffer alongside her.

To her, Rhaenyra marrying who the crown told her to, to fix Viserys' alienation and insult of house Velaryon wasn't enough. Rhaenyra serving and participating on the Small council for years as heir wasn't enough. Rhaenyra swallowing her terror of childbirth to provide the throne with heirs wasn't enough. Sitting and ruling the heirs seat wasn't enough. Acting as heir and trying to solve problems such as the ep.2 Dragonstone conflict wasn't enough. She SAYS IT in episode 2- tells Rhaenyra, the **named heir** that it is not her place to question the plots of kings and men when Rhaenyra expressed the fear that they are plotting to set her aside and remarry her father.

Because she **cannot stand** that Rhaenyra dared to grasp for power and autonomy while doing these things. She cannot stand that Rhaenyra dared to try and be happy whilst also fulfilling her duties. She cannot stand that she did 'everything right' and 'served the kingdom, the family, the law' and is miserable and alone. She was queen for 20 years and only ever used her power to harm Rhaenyra and her children and to further her own abuse onto her own daughter.

All she used her power for was to protect Cole from the consequences of murdering a knight at a royal wedding. To protect Cole from the consequences of slandering the crown princess. To cover up Larys **murdering his family** because while she acted oh so horrified, it served her needs. To cover up Aegons abuses- and we see even as early as ep 6 that female staff are afraid of him.

To protect Cole from the consequences of **bullying and trying to harm** Rhaenyras sons in 'training.' To instill hatred and treason in her children against their sister. To explicitly allow Argon to bully Aemond as he likes so long as when they're in the public eye, they present a united front.

She did everything right but she's miserable and alone. Rhaenyra made the system that harmed women work for her, and wasn't. And she couldn't stand it. To her, Rhaenyra not accepting the rule and superiority of the men around them was the ultimate betrayal. Rhaenyra protecting herself from Alicent, who was above and all, primarily Otto's creature, by not sharing her secrets, was a crime.

Alicent didn't attack Rhaenyra and Luke for Aemond. She did it for herself.

And now the kingdom saw her for who she was. Jealous, greedy, grasping.

Nothing Rhaenyra ever did would be enough duty or sacrifice to her. Because Rhaenyra wasn't suffering alongside her. Olivia Cooke states as much herself.

She has become a tool of the patriarchy against other women. She ISNT the moral dutiful paragon she presents herself as.

Rhaenyra was right when she fired back with 'exhausting wasn't it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness. But now they see you as you are." Because Alicent played her hand. She revealed the jealousy, the greed and that loathing she has towards Rhaenyra for simply not laying down beside her to suffer and sacrifice, whilst men rule and hold power.

She hates Rhaenyra for not serving men as women should- that's what she means when she calls Rhaenyra entitled. That's what she means when she says Rhaenyra 'tramples it under her pretty foot.'

Rhaenyra being the heir that a man 'should' be- that she wants her son to be, as payment for suffering and doing her duty- is a slap in the face to Alicent and she can't stand it. Nevermond that as shown in ep 2 and ep 6 that Rhaenyra is GOOD at it. That's why she scoffed in ep 6, that's why she dismissed Rhaenyras concerns and place in ep 2.

She cannot fucking stand it. And now they see her as she is.

[pucksandpower]

Mine

Carlos Sainz x Reader

Summary: Carlos wants everyone to know you’re his and he knows exactly how to make that happen

Warnings: 18+ content heavily implied, manipulation, tampering with birth control, pregnancy

“Who was that?”

You glance up to find Carlos’ gaze fixed on the rearview mirror of his sleek Ferrari, eyebrows furrowed. His usually cheerful brown eyes are clouded with something you can’t quite place.

“Who?” You ask, feigning ignorance though you know he’s referring to the tall, blond man who had lingered just a bit too long by your side during the after-race party.

“The cabrón in the blue suit,” he grinds his teeth. “Never seen him around before.”

“Ah,” you laugh, reaching out to playfully flick at the bridge of his nose, “just someone from the event planning team. Harmless.”

Carlos doesn’t smile back. His grip on the steering wheel tightens and the set of his jaw becomes more pronounced. “He touched your arm.”

“He was just being friendly,” you reason but a hint of defensiveness creeps into your voice.

There’s a pause as Carlos winds the car through the foreign streets. You can feel his frustration.

“You’re being naive,” he finally says. “It’s not just him. Everywhere we go, I see them looking at you. The way Daniel winks at you, how Lewis always finds an excuse to chat, even the staff and the fans. Don’t you see it?”

It’s not like you can deny that. Ever since the two of you went public with your relationship, attention has been inevitable. You’re the envy of many and the object of desire for countless others. But Carlos’ brooding possessiveness is new and you’re not sure how to address it.

“They’re just our friends,” you murmur. “And fans are fans. They’re excited to see you and by extension me too. That’s all.”

He exhales heavily. “It’s not just about them being friends or fans. It’s the entitlement, the audacity they have, thinking they can just ... approach you like that. Like they have any shot with you.”

You roll your eyes even though he won’t see it while focused on the road. “I can handle myself. Besides, I chose you. They’re nothing to me.”

The car pulls up to the entrance of a crowded nightclub, its entrance flashing with neon lights. Carlos stops in front of the valet, swiveling in his seat to face you.

You’re taken aback by the intensity in his eyes.

“Yes,” he says in a husky whisper, “you chose me. And I chose you. But I can’t stand by and watch these pretenders think they have a shot with you.”

You swallow hard, shocked by the raw emotion in his voice. “You can’t control who talks to me or looks at me. I love you and that’s all that matters.”

He leans in, placing a soft kiss on your forehead. “I know,” his lips brush your skin. “But I also know how men think and I won’t stand for them disrespecting you or our relationship.”

“We’re in the public eye. This is something we will always have to deal with. Trust me, trust us.”

His gaze searches yours, dark eyes imploring. “I trust you,” he says. “It’s them I don’t trust.”

You wrap your fingers around his much bigger ones. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

Carlos sighs, resting his forehead against yours. “I just … I can’t bear the thought of anyone else ever having you.”

Your heart swells. “Mi amor, I’m not going anywhere. The ring on my finger is there because I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He pulls you across the console, setting you on his lap as he wraps his arms around you while ignoring the valet waiting right outside the car. “I know. I just ... I need to make sure that everyone else knows too.”

***

Carlos finds himself in a dimly lit pharmacy aisle, heart racing. The overhead fluorescent lights throw ghostly shadows between the narrow rows. He can hear the soft hum of a distant conversation, punctuated by the rustling of paper bags and the occasional beep of the cash register.

But for Carlos, everything feels distant, like he’s viewing the world through a thick veil.

He stops in front of a shelf, his gaze locking onto the birth control pills. Rows upon rows of them, each promising freedom … autonomy.

His mind rushes back to the countless conversations he’s had with you.

“I want to finish school first,” you would always say earnestly. “Kids are a big responsibility. We have all the time in the world for them later.”

But Carlos doesn’t feel like he has time. He has fought with this internal battle for months. The thought of marking you as his, of the world knowing through the unmistakable swell of your belly, appeals to his most primal instincts.

“Can I help you?” A voice interrupts his thoughts.

He turns to see the pharmacist looking at him with a tentative smile. He tries to gather his thoughts, suddenly feeling like a deer caught in headlights. “I, um, need some pills. Sugar pills.”

The pharmacist frowns. “For a placebo effect?”

Carlos nods, trying to seem nonchalant. “Yeah, something like that. My little cousin needs them for her science fair project.”

She hesitates for a moment then reaches behind the counter, pulling out a small box. “We have these. They’re usually used for clinical trials but they should do the trick.”

He pays for the pills and quickly hides them in his pocket. He thinks about how you would react if you ever found out. But the thought of you carrying his child, the undeniable mark of his claim clear for all to see, is too much to resist.

The next morning starts as it always does. You stretch and make your way to the bathroom, your daily routine staring with the familiar sound of the pill package being opened.

Carlos stands at the doorway, watching as you take your daily birth control. He knows he should feel guilty but instead he is consumed by a heady mix of anticipation and possessiveness.

He imagines your body changing, growing round.

“Morning,” you smile up at him.

He steps closer, wrapping his arms around you. “Morning. How did you sleep?”

You lean into his embrace, enjoying the warmth and solidity of his body against yours. “Like a baby. Must have been the post-race celebrations.”

Carlos chuckles but there’s a tension to it, an undercurrent of something more. “I’ve been thinking,” he begins.

You pull back slightly to look up into his eyes, “Mmmh. About?”

“Us. Our future.”

Your heart skips a beat. “What about it?”

He hesitates, his gaze searching yours. “I want to start a family with you,” the words come tumbling out in a rush. “I know you want to wait but the thought of you carrying my child … our child ... I can’t get it out of my head.”

“I love you," you choose your words carefully. "So much. But I’ve told you how I feel. I’m not ready.”

He lets out a heavy breath, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. “I know. I just can’t help how I feel.”

“We’ll get there when the time is right,” you press a kiss to his bare chest. “I promise.”

***

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You ask, feeling his eyes linger on you as you change out of your dress. The dimly lit bedroom is filled with the ambient sounds of Mallorca nightlife. From the open balcony door, you can hear the soft crash of waves and distant murmurs of evening revelers.

Carlos chuckles lowly. “Like what?”

“Like you’re planning something,” you eye him suspiciously but your voice is playful

He stands, taking a few purposeful steps towards you. “Maybe I am,” he corners you against the wall. The heat of his body warms your own, even through the layers of clothing.

You wrap your arms around his neck. “Planning what?”

He leans down, lips grazing the curve of your ear. “To remind you,” he whispers, “that you’re mine.”

You shiver at his words, the dominant tone sending a thrill down your spine. “Is that so?” You challenge, arching a brow.

His hands slide down your waist, pulling you impossibly close. “Very much so,” he replies, sealing his words with a searing kiss.

As the two of you move to the bed, there’s an urgency, a raw need that wasn’t there before.

Every touch, every kiss, every caress feels even more intense than usual.

“Why are you so ... insistent tonight?” You gasp out through the overwhelming rush of sensations.

Carlos halts momentarily, gazing down at you with hooded eyes. “I want to make sure you never forget,” his voice is rough. “Forget what we have. Forget how deep this goes.”

“I could never forget,” your fingers move with a mind of their own to tangle in his hair.

His lips find yours again. “Promise?”

You nod, getting lost deeper and deeper in the moment. “Promise.”

Hours pass in a blur of passion and whispered confessions. The intensity of Carlos’ actions betrays an underlying need and desperation that are hard for you to place.

As the sun rises above the horizon outside, you find yourself curled up against Carlos’ chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin.

“You were different tonight,” you murmur as your eyes slowly lose their battle against sleep.

Carlos tenses momentarily. “I just wanted to make sure you know," he says lowly. “Know how much I need you. How much I want you.”

You prop yourself up on an elbow, studying his face. “I know,” you brush a stray lock of hair off his forehead. “But what brought this on?”

Carlos hesitates, searching for the right words. “I can’t shake the feeling that something is going to try to come between us,” he admits. “And I need to make sure that never happens.”

Your heart aches at his words and the vulnerability in his eyes. “Nothing is going to come between us,” you lean over to capture his lips tenderly. “We’re much stronger than that.”

Carlos smiles and flips himself on top of you once more. “I’ll make sure of it.”

***

“Ouch!” You exclaim, pulling away as Carlos’ hands brush against your chest. The sudden sensitivity catches you off guard.

Carlos raises an eyebrow, eyes darkening with a mix of concern and something else — something unreadable. “Mi corazón? What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, trying to make sense of the unexpected pain. “I don’t know. I’ve been feeling kind of ... off lately.”

He moves closer, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “How so?”

You shrug, “Just more sensitive, I guess. And tired. And don’t even get me started on how my clothes have decided to stop fitting properly.”

Carlos smirks, a hint of smugness playing on his lips. “Maybe you’ve just been enjoying Spanish cuisine a little too much.”

You roll your eyes, swatting him playfully. “Funny. But seriously, it’s weird. I’ve been doing my workouts, eating right, and still ...”

He pulls you close, fingers tracing the smooth curve of your waist. “I like the changes,” his voice is muffled as he presses a soft kiss to your neck.

You shiver, torn between the pleasure of his touch and the lingering feeling that something just isn’t right. “It doesn’t feel like me,” you try to shake off the unease.

Carlos tightens his grip, gaze intensely locked on yours. “Maybe it’s just ... natural changes. You know, as we get older.”

You frown, pulling away slightly. “But I’m in my twenties. I shouldn’t be feeling like this.”

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Look, bodies change. I’m sure everything is fine.”

You’re not convinced but you nod, pushing the uneasy feeling to the back of your mind. “Maybe.”

Carlos watches you closely, the smugness returning to his features. “Besides,” he says, voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I kind of like the changes. You look ... fuller.”

You blush. “Thanks, I guess.”

He laughs, pulling you close again. “Always so modest,” he presses a soft kiss to your lips.

You melt completely against him, the warmth and familiarity of his touch pushing away the unease, at least for the moment.

But as the days pass, the changes become more pronounced, the nagging feeling that something is wrong growing stronger.

Carlos, on the other hand, seems happier than ever, his possessiveness reaching new heights. He is constantly by your side, his touch lingering, his gaze intense.

“You’re glowing,” he comments one day, eyes tracing your body.

You roll your eyes but hide a smile. “I think you need to get your eyes checked.”

“I’m serious. There’s something … different about you. I like it.”

You frown, trying to make sense of his words. “Different how?”

He thinks for a moment, searching for the right words. “You just seem more radiant. More alive.”

You shake your head, laughing softly. “I think you’re seeing things.”

Carlos smirks. “Maybe,” his hands slip under the material of your shirt, caressing your slightly bloated belly. “Or maybe I just know you better than you know yourself.”

***

“I’m what?” Your voice wavers as you clutch the edge of the doctor’s desk in shock, the coolness of the surface grounding you.

The doctor, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, looks between you and Carlos. “You’re pregnant,” she repeats gently, handing over the sonogram.

Carlos breaks into a wide grin. “That’s incredible!” He pulls you into a tight embrace, placing kisses all over your face.

But as the news sinks in, panic sets in. Your future plans — graduating with your degree, establishing a career — all seem to crash around you.

You gently extricate yourself from his hold, taking a deep breath. “How is this possible? I’m on birth control! We’re always so careful.”

The doctor tilts her head, looking through her notes. “No birth control method is 100% foolproof,” she says. “It’s rare but it can happen.”

Carlos’ fingers lace through yours, his touch warm and reassuring. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispers, squeezing your hand.

Tears well up in your eyes, the overwhelming emotions threatening to drown you. “I still have a year of school left. I wanted to be established in my own career … this wasn’t part of the plan.”

Carlos cups your face. “Hey,” he murmurs, wiping away a tear with his thumb. “You don’t have to worry about any of that. You have me.”

You blink. “Carlos, I want to work. I want a career. I don’t want to be dependent on you.”

He smiles. "You won’t be dependent. You’ll be cared for. Isn’t that what you want?”

You take a step back. “I want to be my own person. I want to make my own choices.”

Carlos’ gaze darkens, the dominant edge returning. “You will be. But you’ll also be mine. That’s what is important now.”

***

You’ve quickly come to love the sensation of your growing belly, cherishing each gentle flutter and kick from the perfect being within, knowing that it’s a bond that only you and Carlos share.

“Good morning, little bean,” you whisper, rubbing the gentle swell of your belly. Every morning, this small act helps you bond with the life growing steadily inside of you.

Carlos enters the room, his hair still tousled from sleep. The morning sunlight casts a warm glow on his chiseled features. “Frijolito is lucky to have a such a beautiful mama,” he murmurs, sidling up to you and wrapping an arm around your waist. His hand finds its place on your belly, fingers splayed and feeling for any hint of movement.

“I am huge,” you complain with a mock pout.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss then pulling back to tilt your chin up. “You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

“You have to say that,” you tease. “I’m carrying your baby.”

“Partly,” he admits, sliding his hand up to cup your face, “but mostly because it’s true. You would put Helen of Troy to shame.”

Weeks pass and your body continues to transform.

There’s a softness, a roundness, that wasn’t there before, and it’s something that Carlos revels in. His hand is constantly on your belly, possessive and protective. Every time another man’s gaze lingers a little too long on you, Carlos’ lips curve into a smirk, silently declaring his ownership.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” You ask one evening as the two of you settle into bed.

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “Enjoying what?”

“Having every man that looks at me know that I’m yours,” you poke him playfully on the chest.

“Maybe,” his hand slides down your body. “Is that a problem?”

You sigh, nestling closer to him. “No,” you admit. “It’s kind of nice, actually.”

Carlos grins, pressing a kiss to your belly. “That’s my girl.”

The months fly by and soon the reality of your impending motherhood sets in. There are nursery preparations, birthing classes, and endless discussions about baby names. Through it all, Carlos is by your side, excitement never wavering.

“Can you believe we’re going to be parents?” You marvel one day, looking around the nursery.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” Carlos says. “You and our frijolito are my everything.”

Happy tears well up in your eyes. “I love you,” you whisper, burying your face in his chest.

Carlos tightens his grip, resting his chin on top of your head. “Yo también te amo.”

The next race day arrives and as always, Carlos calm and collected. But recently there has been a different kind of energy to him, an intensity that was never there before.

“Promise me you’ll be safe,” you clutch his hand.

Carlos smiles, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips and then another on your belly. “I promise,” he says, eyes locking with yours. “I have too much to come home to ever do otherwise.”

***

“It’s time,” you gasp, clutching the bedsheets as another contraction hits.

Carlos lets you grip his hand impossibly tight. “Breathe, mi corazón,” he urges, wiping the sweat off your forehead.

Hours pass in a blur of pain and anticipation. Through it all, Carlos is by your side, his touch both comforting and grounding.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, a small cry pierces the air. Tears stream down your face as you catch your first glimpse of your son, his tiny face scrunched up in protest.

“He’s absolutely perfect,” Carlos says thickly, tears gathering as he kisses you gently.

You smile weakly, the exhaustion of a long labour weighing you down. “Our little bean,” you whisper, cradling your son close.

Carlos wipes away an escaped tear. “Our frijolito,” his gaze never leaves your son’s face.

As you start feeding your son for the first time, Carlos’ face softens and his eyes fill with awe. “I can’t believe we made something so amazing,” he traces a finger over your son’s tiny hand.

You smile, heart swelling with love. “He’s perfect,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face.

Carlos leans down to press a soft kiss to your son’s forehead and then another to yours. “You did incredible. Thank you for giving me everything I could ever ask for.”

You smile. “We did this together.”

Carlos nods, his gaze locked onto your son’s face. “I promise you that I will always take care of you both. You will never have to worry about a thing.”

“I know," you whisper as you let contentment and tiredness drift you off to sleep.

As the days pass, Carlos becomes even more possessive and protective, his love for you and your son deepening with each passing moment. He is constantly by your side, reluctant to leave either of you for even a second.

One evening, as the two of you sit on the balcony, watching the sunset while your son dozes away, Carlos turns to you. “I want to give you more.”

You raise an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “More what?”

Carlos smirks and pulls you close. “More children,” he murmurs, pecking your lips. “I want to fill you with my babies.”

You laugh, “One is enough for now.”

Carlos chuckles but his face is serious. “We’ll see.”

Carlos knows that he will ensure it happens just like he did before.

He’ll keep you bound to him forever.

[muddyorbsblr]

ill-intentioned "compliments"

Drabbles Masterlist See my full list of works here!

Summary: Loki steps in when a man subjects you to his tasteless opinion on your outfit

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 955 (issa blurb)

Warnings: creepy men being creepy; the tiniest dose of violence (let me know if I missed anything!)

Things to be aware of: a bit of mutual pining

"I haven't the slightest idea why we have even been tasked with this," Loki muttered, walking alongside you holding a paper with a list of errands for the two of you to run this weekend. Every other week, two names from the team were picked from a hat, and this week, your names popped up.

"Well Pepper said something about it helping the team seem more approachable, 'human', if the public sees us doing 'normal people' things. So getting groceries, getting the cars cleaned and gassed up, picking up pizza…little things."

He grumbled even worse; if he wasn't such a stickler for his princely stature, he'd probably be slouching and dragging his feet right about now. "I suppose it could be worse," he said softly. "I could have been partnered with less tolerable company."

"Why Mischief, are you saying you like having me around?" you quipped, playfully batting your eyes at the god. "High praise coming from you."

"Do not make me regret saying that, little mortal." He rolled his eyes at you, failing to hold back the twitching of the corner of his mouth and hide the amusement. As he often did when he was around you.

"Well if it makes you feel any better, I like having you around, too."

Your words took him aback. "Truly?"

"Of course." You pointed at the next item on your list, before motioning toward the top shelf. "You're the most tolerable tall person I could've been partnered with. Last time I got partnered with your brother I had to push around two carts on my own."

You had to look away while he reached up for the carton of pickle jars, resisting against every urge to ogle at the way his midnight black jeans stretched over his inhumanly perfectly shaped ass. "Well for what it's worth, darling, I would never let you do any of this on your own--"

"We-he-heeeelll, Agent Y/L/N," a voice drawled out, coming from a man who was no less than two decades your senior, eyes filled with such prurient thoughts that he didn't even bother to hide as he leered at you. The way he said your name, along with the way he looked at you, felt like you were being blanketed in slime.

Made you want nothing more than to kick his ass. Or even rack up a debt to the god you were partnered with and ask for his help.

"Don't you look mighty fine today, in that cute little skirt…" The unwelcome lecherous admirer was reaching his hand out toward you, letting out a yowl of pain when Loki stormed over, grabbed the man's wrist in his significantly larger hand, and squeezed.

"I think not," he said through gritted teeth. "You're undeserving to be sharing the same breath as her and you believe yourself entitled to a touch?"

"What? I was just paying her a compliment!" the man whined. "It's a free country, you fucking alien. What? I can't tell a woman she's pretty anymore? Is that what--"

"You know damn well you were doing more than that. You were putting her in a situation to give a clear message, that despite her stature and place in society, because you have deemed it so, she is still subject to your lecherous thoughts. You were going to touch her without her consent because you wished for her to know that you can, and whatever happens in the aftermath will not nullify how she was already subjected to being groped by your grimy unworthy hands." The god squeezed a touch tighter, a near sadistic smile stretched across his face when he began to hear bones creaking and threatening to crack.

"Fucking psycho you're breaking my hand!"

"Oh I haven't even begun to get psychotic," Loki spat out, squeezing just a touch harder and hearing the first fracture finally give in. He begun to speak lower, and you were too far away to decipher what he said next. "You know not the lengths I would go for her, you impotent, tiny, inconsequential insectile excuse for a man. Anyone who sullies her mood will have me to answer to, am I being clear?"

Another squeeze. More fractures. And the once supercilious man was reduced to a whimpering mess, pleading for mercy. "P-Please I'm sorry, just let me go I won't do it again."

"See to it that you don't." The god's eyes glowed a vibrant green for a moment, casting an enchantment that would replicate the sensation of his hand fracturing whenever he would so much as feel the urge to touch another unfortunate unwitting woman moving forward. When he was certain that the spell had taken, he released the lech's hand with a derisive sneer, not even bothering to watch him scamper away, choosing instead to turn and cross the few steps back to you.

"You know I could've kicked his ass no problem."

"I have no doubts, little mortal, but that would also mean you would have given him the satisfaction of touching him." He broke out into a smile when you scrunched up your face at his response, fighting against the urge to reach for your hand. Or tuck that stray lock of hair behind your ear.

Or kiss you.

"Thank you," you said softly as you both started walking toward the register. "The guys back at the Compound got it so wrong about you. You're not so bad." Loki's heart stumbled at your words, only to start pounding in his chest as you continued. "I'm starting to wonder if you're bad at all."

For the first time in ages, the god found himself unable to form words, a warmth blooming in both his gut and his chest. "Anytime, darling."

A/N: Made this for @glitchquake because we should be allowed to wear cute workout clothes without worry about creepy fckers that 100% deserve stabbies when they try to bust out their creep factor 😤

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @tom-hlover @dryyoursaltyoceantears @herdetectivetheorist

[k0yaz]

https://www.tumblr.com/k0yaz/758473618729615360/arlecchino-x-married-man-reader-please-oh-wait

Pause- this gave me a vision

Good Luck, Babe! by C.R lyric angst fic Arlecchino x Reader 😼

With happy ending tho 🔫

Like Reader married some mf from the male species when her and Arl were younger (18-20) because she was in denial abt her feelings for Arl and married him as a ‘f u, I totally love men’ but even after a few years Arlecchino can still tell she’s MISERABLE

Wait- double the angst and make Reader someone who’s known for being smart, powerful and just super cool in general but her husband is constantly trying to make her be seen as just his wife and never acknowledges any of the amazing things she does ☹️

I told you so.

Pairings: arlecchino x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, modern au, angst, comphet, more than usual swearing, girls kissing bro why is this even a warning it’s obvi, sexism, misogyny, bad husband ewwww, arle’s real name used at the very beginning, mentions of ugly ass guy inappropriately touching without consent ew, arguing, mild violence, fluff at end, not proofread.

A/N: needed to desperately write this my girlkisser ass is in code red rn cause of my parents 💀‼️ ALSO I DONT LIKE HOW THIS CAME OUT IT SUCKS 🕯️

“I don’t! I could never be into girls, Peruere!”

Back flush to the roughened couch, your aching body stretched backwards into a domed arch as your arms flailed out for leverage. Those words you had so foolishly uttered all those years ago echoed over and over in your brain like a broken record, clouding your mind like a plaguing guilt weighing down every waking moment of your life that followed. You let out a defeated sigh, the exhale dragging out longer than it should have to the point where you felt as if your own breath had tickled your lower lip. The small rush of air…it reminded you of when you felt Arlecchino’s breath gently caress the side of your face as her lips hovered over your cheek, her looming frame inching closer and closer to you as you reciprocated.

Everything. Everything reminded you of her.

The crimson lipstick resting atop the bedside table, the intoxicating scent of the perfume she always used to wear—being inhaled so deeply by you to the point where it tickled the tightened crevices of your throat. You’d spray a little on your pillows often as well, the dizzying smell with a hint of fresh roses accompanying the comfort it burned into you, and helping you fall asleep often. After all, sleeping turned into more of a hobby whenever you found yourself sharing a bed with the said “man of your dreams.”

His weight bundled onto the side of the bed situated beside you only sent a pit of sickness bubbling up within you, teeth gritting as you would lay on your side. The silky pillows enveloped your head as your nightgown loosely covered your body, hand slipped below the side of your head as you faced away from your husband. Sleeping with that man was nothing short of a clawing nightmare. Every damn night, you’d uncomfortably writhe within the blankets draped over your shoulders as you silently prayed for him to fall asleep as soon as possible, the wait getting so awful over all these years that you’d always count the digital clock situated atop the bedside table next to your head.

10:01…10:02..10:03..10:04. Finally.

The earliest he’d slept was 10:04. Giving you enough time to get lost in your maelstrom of guilt and ambiguous thoughts piled up within you.

The dotted red glow of the broken numbers displayed on the clock beside you illuminated the corner of your face dimly, eyelids low as you mindlessly gazed at the smooth wood of the table your head almost shifted onto after nearly falling off the pillow. Archons. You fucking miss her. You miss Arlecchino so much it hurts. You wish that you didn’t marry this awful, entitled man child just to prove a point that only consisted of you placing another mask of suffering upon yourself to conceal your truth. A mask that was cracked and easy to see through anyway. His irritating snores continued to buzz along the vicinity of the room, sounding more like a rumbling growl shaking the bed to be frank.

You hated him, to put it simply. You only married him to prove that you couldn’t fall in love with a girl. He was the one that was at the other end of the table with his chin resting on his hand as he gazed at you in a covetous manner, cocky grin pasted onto his vile face. The was the first suitor you thought would accommodate to your delusion.

“(Name) will you marry me?”

Each syllable hung in the air for an extended in a way that made you want to choke, blood rushing to every part of your body to seep into your sunken heart. With a stiff nod, your shaky hand slowly inched forward palm down, veins protruding along the tightened flesh as you fought the urge to hold it back and prevent him from grasping it. Swallowing back a sob, your bottom lip quivered between your teeth as his rugged hand dragged along your skin, tainting it with his unkempt, rough touch. Heads of goosebumps blistered along your hand as the freezing metal circled your ring finger tightly, suffocating your finger between the tight ring like a corset. He didn’t even bother to affirm your size. But you knew full well that she would’ve made sure that ring slipped seamlessly in perfect fit.

The gyrating ceiling fan above you whirled in rapid motions as the cool breeze emitted from it brushed along your skin, all the way up to fluffing your hair. Your eyes remained lifessly tracing the swift afterimages of the fan as you lounged on the couch, not minding your husband’s exasperated complaints piling up one after another with each venomous word he spoke.

“(Name). I told you to make me dinner when I got home from work, so where the hell is it? I’m fucking starving over here you good for nothing whore!”

Your brows furrowed together at his degrading words, face scrunching up with prominent wrinkles of irritation adorning your features. Upper body carefully elevating off the arm of the couch, you brought your palm to your forehead, before pinching the bridge of your nose with a sharp inhale. Silence swallowed the room from your lack of response to his insolent remarks and insults, only cut through by his heavy breathing vibrating against his throat. Clearing your throat finally, you were able to articulate your words in the small window of time you had before he could cut your off once more. Even the mere scratch of clearing your throat felt relieving once he ceased to speak, feeling as if there was a pass way of freedom which released you from the cage of his grasp.

“I’m exhausted. Cook your own dinner, I physically and emotionally can’t do this right now.” You replied coldly, collapsing back down onto the couch into your returned comfort as the fluffy cushions pressed flush against your spine. His face only contorted into anger, slightly reddened like an unstable child rather than a grown man. “You’re my wife. You’re supposed to cook for me! That’s your job not mine!” He bit back, hands folded over his chest and gaze staring daggers into your relaxed form.

Tilting your head over to his upright figure, you simply cocked an eyebrow, staring back at him with heavy lidded eyes as if he was just a mutt ordering you around.

“I’m not only your wife, you know. I’m my own person. I don’t have to cater to everything you want.”

“You know that you’re inferior to me. Ever since we got married that’s how it should’ve been! But no you had to go do your own little thing!”

“Then how should it be? Come on enlighten me.”

Your annoyance began elevating to a boiling point with each little thing he spat at you, every remark of inferiority made you fall further and further into a hole of sorrow and anger as he spoke each revolting “truth” about his twisted views. You couldn’t help but grasp the fabric of the cushion below you forcefully, wrinkling the fabric in every direction with your husband’s endless remarks spilling from his undignified lips.

“And once a woman is married to a man, they become his wife, and his wife only!”

Slamming a hand down onto the couch, you rose to your feet in one quick motion, glaring up at your husband’s wrinkled face of rage. Letting out a quick huff, you only took in the simmer of the broken air conditioner enveloping the silence once more as a means to tranquillize your boiling anger, breathing ragged as your heart rate skyrocketed from everything you bit back through the course of the argument.

“…I’m going to bed.”

“This early? I wanted a night with you (Na-)”

“You’re not fucking getting one.”

You winced slightly, hunching your shoulders as your skin grew hot from discomfort. Closing your eyes, you only braced yourself for the string of unending curses spewing from your husband’s mouth. Simply, you lowered your gaze as everything surrounding you was manually shut out. Mind enveloped in a pitch black void of emptiness, the only noise flicking at your cold ears being the unnerving ticks of a clock.

How much longer would you have to endure this?

The floorboards only sang out a ghastly creaking noise as you set your foot down upon each elevating slab of wood, the faint yet evident noise reminding you of the man below you having his eyes utterly fixated on your every move like a hawk eyeing its next catch. It was nothing short of disturbing and unsettling for you. Slowly, you made your way over to the entrance of your unfortunately shared bedroom, pushing open the heavy door with a fervent shove.

You couldn’t help but finally take in a deep breath as you flopped down onto the bed, body comfortably sinking into the plush of the silk mattress accommodating your exhausted self. Head still continuing to swirl with a wave of unresolved emotions, and a caged feeling confining to gnaw at you endlessly, you reached into your left pocket to whip your phone in front of your face. Rolling over onto your stomach, you thumbed aimlessly through the various contacts rowed out along your glowing screen, scrolling until you found the one you were looking for.

The contact you are calling does not exist.

Shit.

You just stared at Arlecchino’s inactive contact with deadpan, hopeless eyes, blinking twice to process it once more. You truly couldn’t reach her could you? Having lost all hope, you simply set aside your phone as it fell flat onto the wood with a knock, and you rolled yourself onto your back to combat the pure insanity of your fate enveloping you.

“I told you so.”

The already wrinkled bedsheets below you only bundled together further as you swayed onto your back and side alternately, holding the pillow up to your face with a muffled yell. Her words only continued to return to you with every moment you were awake, perhaps even in death your regret wouldn’t cease to eat away at you for locking yourself into this awful pact. Dim slivers of pale light brightened the left half of your face, glowing from the burning lamp on the table as you squinted upon the sudden flood of light blinding you.

The one thing you longed not to hear at this moment was your husband’s footsteps drawing closer and closer to the bedroom, heavily bellowing against the floorboards. Remaining on your side, your arm tightened slightly from the pressure of your torso cushioning it into the mattress, the mattress sinking deep upon your husband making his way beside you on the bed.

“(Name). Turn off that light.” He grumbled. The stinging odor of his excessive cologne only caused you to choke back a retch, gagging from the pungent smell assaulting your nostrils. You merely decided that he wasn’t worth any more trouble, and you remained too exhausted to even snap back at such a childish individual. Slowly, you reached over to clasp the handle of the switch, thumb fitted against the teardrop shaped steel of the end. For a moment you hesitated, gaze flickering behind you for a brief second—only to catch his eyes tracing your every move. In a sudden, burly voice, he cleared his throat to speak to you, tone remaining arrogant around you as if he had authority over you.

“Tomorrow we’re going to some big event with a few rich people here and there, nothing much. Dress nice tomorrow, we leave at 3 pm.”

You scoffed, squinting your eyes back at him while your body remained facing away. Of course. As always he goes and makes decisions for the both of you without even considering your words or plans.

“And you’re telling me this now?” You retorted, cocking an eyebrow while sharp breaths emanated from the man beside you, indicating his loss of patience. Not that he had any to begin with. “I can do what I want, bitch. Try not to embarrass me with your usual displays of arrogance, ‘kay, (Name)? There’s gonna be a couple rich people there.” Rolling your eyes, you only delivered a small nod in response, not wanting anymore trouble especially when you desperately needed some rest. “Yeah.”

Finally, your tugged down onto the cord of the lamp, the pale yellow light dimming and blowing out completely. Your husband was completely knocked out by the time you lowered yourself onto your side, facing away from him. Rumbling snores reverberated throughout the room, ringing in your ears repeatedly as you folded the edges of your pillow over either side of your head in an attempt to block out every noise.

It wasn’t too early in the morning, rather the darkness spread out within the frame of the window accompanied by the low glimmer of light outlining the moon suggested it was sometime in the middle of the night still. Deep quakes of breathing racked the vicinity the moment you took in your surroundings, alerting you awake altogether. Of course. It was him again. Letting out a subtle, quiet groan, you buried your face into your cupped palms, fingertips tracing along the flat of your forehead as you cloaked your face within your hands.

Was this all you were now? Nothing more than his trophy wife just like he wanted?

A light buzz from your phone lit up the device, making its glowing screen noticeable from the corner of your groggy eyes. You leaned over, inspecting the notification you had received so late at night. There was a single gray bar with the calendar icon in a box to the left of it, the lines: “Rich people dinner at 3” displayed along the margins of the bar. Great. Not only does he set notifications on your phone without asking, but he also doesn’t even formally address the dinner. You simply sighed, breath shaky as you constantly found yourself struggling to come to terms with your current reality clawing at you.

—

“(Name) come on! We’re gonna be late and the fancy pricks’ll look at us like we’re broke!”

You scrunched up your upon hearing him calling you like a barbarian, your dress halfway hitched up to make a few adjustments for a good fit. Loud bangs against the door only heightened your brewing annoyance, causing you to manually drown out his calls as another screeching white noise in the background. The silk of the dress tightly fitted your figure, framing every inch of you and hugging each blooming curve of your body. You hunched your shoulder forward, turning to your side to inspect the dress as a smile crossed your face. For once you felt quite confident in yourself rather than sulking about your husbands antics.

It didn’t take long for you to suddenly be snapped out of your daze as the and of the door swung open against the wall, revealing your husband with his arms folded in the doorway. You nearly choked on your own breath, coughing in shock as the sudden thud of wood banging against the wall had startled you, making your body jolt.

“Well, you look like a snack don’t you?” He sneered, causing you to instinctively brush your hands along your elbows as you folded your arms, physically recoiling from his forward advances. You thumbed at the fabric anxiously, sucking in a breath of fearful anticipation with each step he took. That was until his arm grasped at the dip of your waist tightly, fingers digging in as if he wasn’t going to let you go. There wasn’t much you could do besides hold your breath as you felt yourself being pulled against him, perturbation screaming at every single mental alarm, every possible sense you had before yanking away from him to fix the front of your dress.

“Please. Enough. You said we’ll be late, right?”

He only flashed you a grin, taking your hand in his, which you almost immediately yanked away from.

“Yeah. Get in the car. Remember no smartass remarks. And if anyone asks, you’re my wife. Nothing more.”

You averted your gaze at his statement, only walking over to the door of the sleek rental car before climbing into the back seat. No way you were about to get into the passenger seat next to him. Once you seated yourself into the back against the smooth leather, you proceeded to draw in the remaining droops of fabric your dress hung out of the car before shutting the door and leaning back into the head rest.

The ride felt like it was driving past various roads and buildings for hours, each time you gazed out the window to see a tree flash by quickly feeling as if it had been a century since you had first gotten into the car. However, you found yourself lazily parked—courtesy of your husband—before a opulent hall towering above you and lit up brightly despite the sun peeking behind the clouds in the afternoon. Two large doors framed the opening carved around the center, adorned with outlines of black steel, and large knockers stuck on the inner part of the door frame. A lanky man in a suit stood upright beside the parted door, arms tucked behind his back as his eyes scanned each person who made their way in and out of the building hall.

You exited the confines of the car, ducking your head to avoid hitting it along the roof before standing straight and closing the car door behind you. Your husband only shoved your shoulder in response, grasping your wrist as he dragged you along with him with haste before the doors. You didn’t even bother to protest, and flashed the guard a weak smile as your heels dragged along the rolled out carpet leading into the hall. Just get this over with. You’ll be fine.

He finally released your hand carelessly, not paying any mind to you while you shook your wrist and blew on it to subside the effects of his tight grasp. The chandelier decorated with candles rocked back and forth above your head, while various bars and tables stocked with food and drinks furnished every corner of the hall. Along with that, a large screen flashed at the very front of the hall blared loudly along with the speakers situated on both sides of the screen.

—

The entire event had been nothing but a bore. Rich man after rich man bragging about his company which he knew nothing about. The people who came up to you and your husband when you both were standing by each other attempting to converse with the two of you, and inquire more about you, were only met with your husband’s constant boasts about how you were merely his wife. Your achievements were his too, and therefore he was the one credited. This only led up to you isolating from him, and practically everyone at the party, drowning your sorrows away in glass after glass of champagne. Thankfully, your high alcohol tolerance allowed you to remain appearing sober, only needing to tighten your hand around the table for support occasionally.

Heavy lidded, you brought another glass to your lips as you tilted your head back in one jerk, gulping down the alcoholic beverage and squeezing your eyes shut. You let out a quiet hum as you set down the glass on the table behind you, dragging along the table cover as you examined the vicinity through droopy eyes. The same. Everyone was just wearing suits and that god awful smug expression. You simply rubbed your forehead, stress lines forming along your skin as your massaged it.

That was until a dashing figure caught your eye. Someone familiar.

You squinted your eyes once more, catching a single streak of black hair blended into white, a thin ponytail trailing down her nape to the back of her white suit. At this point, you were sure the drinks had definitely done something to you. You just missed her so much you were going insane and hallucinating like a typical drunkard. Yet, you couldn’t mistake that piercing gaze—near glowing red crosses embedded into her pitch black pupils within heavy eyes.

Despite still being drunk, you shouldered through the crowd, halting upon reaching the circle of people crowding the alluring woman who held a glass of wine between her sharp, black faded fingertips. Her crimson lipstick glistened as a hint of wine smeared across it, expression remaining indifferent to the heaps of people surrounding her while she leaned onto the table. You couldn’t believe your eyes. It really was her.

Arlecchino. Where have you been this whole time?

Steep breaths caught in your throat, you pushed past the crowd, stumbling occasionally and not minding their complaints. You wanted to do so much. Cry, hug her, apologize, run away from your caged marriage, talk to her, catch up—everything. She simply turned her back to the crowd before you could even reach a viable proximity near her, stepping away to a more secluded location. Your heart sank as you began to lose sight of her, gaze fixated on her white suit with the emblem in the center of her chest as you continued to keep your eyes on her in the crowd no matter what.

You paved through each bundle of people blocking your path, staggering occasionally due to your own drunkenness as you finally caught sight of Arlecchino leaned against a polished wall near a table, eyes fluttered shut as she sipped her refined glass of red wine. Breathing heavily, you staggered over to her, resting yourself at her side before slowly trailing your sights up to her face with bleary eyes and a near pleading expression.

“Arle..?”

She only cocked an eyebrow in response, staring down at you with a cold gaze lacking recognition. “Do I know you?”

Hurt burned in your throat as you fought not to cry upon hearing those words from Arlecchino’s lips, your own bottom lip being dragged between your teeth to prevent making its fervent trembling noticeable.

“Arle, it’s me, please.” You choked out, placing a hand on your chest while panting heavily as you locked eyes with hers. “It’s me, (Name)..” you mumbled under your breath in a shaky voice, tears threatening to sting the corner of your eyes at any given moment. Arlecchino suddenly set down her glass, coming face to face with you before her own eyes widened at your familiar features.

“Ah. It really is you isn’t it?”

Although her tone remained calm and collected, it wasn’t hard to tell how her voice softened for you, growing sweet like nectar dripping from her crimson lips. You nearly sobbed upon feeling her hand gently brush along your cheek, your own hand resting atop hers as you leaned into her touch, trembling. You could barely articulate what you wanted to say, each word coming in short breaths as droplets of tears pricked at your eyes subtly.

“My darling. You haven’t changed much. Still as beautiful as the day I met you…” her thumb circled the skin of your cheek, eyes roaming down to the same crimson lipstick she used decorating your own lips. “…and the day you departed from me.”

“Arle- I’m so sorry! I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you then! I can’t live like this any longer! I can’t! I knew it was you ever since I didn’t listen to what my feelings told me! Please! I love you, Peruere!” You gasped out desperately in one breath in a near sob, clinging onto Arlecchino like a lifeline as you grasped at the fabric of her coat. She only let out a soft hum, resting her chin onto your head as she took in your scent. You were wearing her perfume. Soothingly, her fingertips traced a repetitive pattern of comforting circles along your back, something she always did when you both were in your youth to calm you down.

“(Name). I’ve never once lost my feelings for you. I love you. And you only. I’m just, pleased that I get to see you again.” She sighed, burying her nose into your soft tufts of hair at the top of your head as she hugged you. She hemmed her arms around your vulnerable form holding her tightly, almost like a promise to never let you go again, to protect you from any harm that dared cross your path. Wiping your eyes, you cleared your throat as you pulled away from your moment of weakness, standing straight before Arlecchino as your palms nervously clasped together in front of you.

“Tell me, how awful is he to the point where he broke you like this..?”

“Terrible. Straight from hell if I could say. I’m stuck. I’m so fucking stuck you don’t even know.”

“I see.”

She paused, proceeding to say her next words.

“Would you reprimand me if I said once more that I told you so?”

You shook your head, contrasting the initial reaction you had when you first lashed out at her all those years ago.

“Nope. I’d affirm that you were right. I shouldn’t have complied with what society wants if it means I have to suffer.” You replied, gritting your teeth together as you looked away in shame. Arlecchino only placed a hand on your shoulder, running her arm down the curve of your shoulder as her sleek hands traveled down the flushed skin of your arm. “You would always get warm like this when I touched you.” She reminisced, letting out an exhale of contentment.

All of a sudden, the comfort of the moment was shattered by your husband’s voice, slicing through the tranquility harbored between you and her mere moments ago.

“Ah! (Name)! Who’s this? A friend?”

He eagerly shook her hand, while Arlecchino’s gaze grew resentful and repulsed of the man before her, her own hand clasped around his with every ounce of hatred she possessed. Brows furrowing, she immediately pulled her hand back, manner remaining distinctive, yet subtly aggressive.

“Ah, you may talk to me now in fact. This woman is my wife! And she’s just my wife don’t worry about it. Anything she told you is my achiev-“

“Shut your fucking mouth. Before I shut it for you—nauseating son of a bitch.” She replied harshly, eyes locked on him with nothing but murderous intent.

“Don’t speak to me that way you slut-!”

He was cut off by Arlecchino’s firm grasp on his wrist, nails digging into his flesh barely. Although—her mere strength alone was enough to nearly shatter his wrist, making him cry out for mercy and forgiveness from the woman looking down upon him. Fear clouded his eyes for the first time you had ever seen as Arlecchino looked him in the eye, his pupils shaking from anticipation and fear. “Refrain from speaking about her like that, or treating her poorly. If I find out about your disgusting antics again I’ll personally tear you apart limb by limb, understood?”

Before he could respond, she tossed him aside like a ragdoll as he gripped his arm in agony lip quivering at the searing pain ripping at the aftermath of his wrist. In the meantime, you felt Arlecchino’s lips brush against your ear, staining the shell a light blood red color as she whispered softly.

“May I?”

You smiled genuinely for the first time in years, nodding as you felt her warm breath caress the side of your face once more. God, you missed that feeling. Her arm circled the wide ends of your waist, pulling you tightly against her as she held you close under her watchful eye. It was simple. She’d never leave you again.

—

“Peruere..since when did you even get such a nice modern home like this? I’d die to live here.”

She breathed out a quiet laugh, tidying up an area quickly with her back turned to you as she stood in her nightly wear. “No need. You will be living here if you’d like, darling.” She glanced over her shoulder at your form splayed out on the mattress, comfortably hugging the pillow to your chest. It was evident that you’d never felt this safe or happy in quite some time. She put down the cup she was rearranging near an odd table in her room, seating herself on the bed as she motioned you to come closer. A light chuckle escaped her lips as you complied, shifting close into her arms comfortably as you basked in her warmth.

“What about my husband?”

“What about him?”

“Well- I am still married to him. I’m legally still stuck.”

Laying back, Arlecchino just exhaled in response, threading her slender fingers through your hair.

“I will get you out. Trust me. For now, just rest how I wanted us to. You have a lot of love you missed out on, and I’m here to help us catch up on that.”

You sighed peacefully against her at those words, curling up at her side as you nuzzled into her. For the first time, you could sleep peacefully with a weight beside you. This was all you had wanted. Safely enveloped in Arlecchino’s embrace, being able to bask in tranquility and solace with the woman you loved as you sought an escape from the cruel torment of your husband.

Perhaps it all worked out in the end.

No.

It did work out in the end, as you slumbered in your beloved’s arms.

A/N: HOLY SHIET THERES SO MUCH I WANNA SAY

first of all tysm for 1k followers I genuinely appreciate all the support and I hope my writing has improved over the course of the past year and a half or so!

Second guess who’s alive again yay but writing is a little rusty

Third I am in fact going thru a little internal struggle atm so if my works are a bit late or kinda ass bear with me please 😭‼️

Other than that ily all I love how the second half of this turned out and yeah 🕯️

I’m kinda cold ngl

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#208

“You know there are times that I just want to come home from being on the road and enjoy a scotch, a full-flavored cigar, and a nice long blowjob….

“That’s what my bitch cunt ex-wife gave me.  It was about the only time she’s even tolerable, which is why she’s my ex.  Now, most of the time I need to fuck something, and not just fuck, but fuck the hell out of something. 

“I had a regular faggot cunt for that.  Key word there is ‘had.’  The fucker had the audacity to tell me that the only thing it was getting from me out of our arrangement was toxic masculinity.  I smacked it across the face, kicked it in the balls, and walked out the door.  Fuck!  Toxic masculinity my ass.  That fag didn’t have a problem with that when I had it in the back of my semi with my ten-inch cock buried in its cunt. 

“So faggot here we are.  And I’m calling you Faggot going forward.  Unless you are signing over your paycheck to me, I don’t need to know your name. 

“All that matters is that since I have been here your eyes can’t look away from my cock bulge.  We both know that my cock rules everything.  I’ve been thinking with my dick for 47 years now, and I ain’t changing.  So faggot, if you have a problem with toxic masculinity, speak up now.  Didn’t think so.  You are just another faggot that wants to swing on a real man’s cock.  I can see that you have pretty much nothing between your legs.  How tiny is that clit?  Four and a half?  Naaa, it’s three inches at most.  If anyone ever asks, you tell them that you have three inches only. 

“It’s not like you are going to use it for anything other than to pee.  Speaking of which, you sit to pee.  Real men stand… well, when I’m not pissing into a faggot.  You will be expected to drink all my piss….  You know, I don’t want to go through a list of things that you will do for me.  Let me just say you will be expected to do many things.  Many things.  I’ll tell you the limits you will have, and fuck any idea of creating a safe word. 

“Look, I may be a selfish asshole trucker with a ten-inch cock, but I am not a psycho.  My dick gets real hard knowing I am entitled to do whatever I want to you without asking you.  If I wanted to take a dump in your mouth, I’m going to.  Aww don’t look panicked.  I find that gross too.  But if ever I wanted to do it, I’m fucking doing it. 

“You have a nice set up here.  I like the separate entrance for your basement.  This will suit me fine.  Make a set of keys for me for my next visit.  I don’t give a shit that your stuff is on that half of the room.  I plan on using this as a crash pad.  Maybe bring home some other fag or bitch to fuck.  And I am saying this now, don’t you dare show any jealousy.  In fact, you should be turned on knowing my cock is getting serviced.  And always beg to clean off my cock whenever I fuck someone else.  That’s the only decent thing to do…. 

“Fuck your eyes can’t look away from my cock.  I like that.  My cock should always be your focus.  Only my cock too.  You are giving up all other men for me.  As I just mentioned before, I won’t do the same. 

“Reach over and touch my cock through my pants.  Big isn’t it?  It’s getting harder.  You know what makes it really hard?  This.  A face slap.  Faggot, your face was made for my hand.  With. Every. Fucking. Slap. My. Dick. Gets. Harder.  Fuck yeah.  There are many reasons why a man would slap a faggot like you, but at the core, it’s just to remind you that you are inferior in every way.  Fuck!  That’s sure getting me ready to fuck your cunt.

“You know, I don’t like your beard and stache.  Shave them off for my next visit.  In fact, I want you hairless everywhere except your eyebrows.  And if I find any hair anywhere, I will use my cigar to singe them off.  You may wind up with a burn too, but that’s your fucking problem. 

“I think it’s time for you to get to worship me properly.  Hands behind your back.  Look at this cock.  You really got me leaking.  That’s it, look down the shaft.  Thick too?  I know.  Open your mouth wide and stick your tongue out as far out and down as you can.  You are probably wondering how you are going to take it.  Well, the answer for today is you are getting it jammed in to the root.  That’s it faggot.  No fucking teeth.  Take it.  Open up that throat.  Dedicate that airway to me.  Oh fuck. 

“Keep those pansy assed hands behind you.  When a man holds your faggot head, he’s in control of the blowjob.  You sole focus is opening up your throat.  Gagging is good.  In fact, it’s putting a lot of throat slime on me.  That’s the lube I will need for your other hole.  On your fucking hands and knees now.  Spread those legs.  I’m taking that fucking cunt.  Fuuuuck.  This cunt has been used before.  But not too stretched out.  Faggot, I think you and your cunt are going to work out for me.  Oh fuck.  Hell yes.  I could do this all night.  Fuck, in fact I will.”

[yallemagne]

I'm watching people trauma bond with Calypso from EPIC in real-time. Y'all. A character can be a woman and be a rapist at the same time. And her being a woman doesn't mean that ACTUALLY there's some trauma in her past that justifies her imprisoning men on her island and taking them to bed against their will, it means that she's a rapist that just happens to also be a woman.

I love how Calypso is depicted in EPIC, she's just dripping with a nastiness that is only matched by Penelope's entitled suitors. She's sugary sweet at the outset, but when Odysseus rather violently rejects her, she laughs at his rejection, saying he's adorable when he's angry and that he doesn't have any choice but to submit to her will as a god. And then she goes right back to the sweet lover in paradise ruse!!! It's sickening! She denies his autonomy because it gets in the way of the fantasy romance that she's forcing upon him.

So, I'm frustrated with people trying to paint it as though she's the victim in the situation, that what she's doing is somehow okay because she's a pretty woman and they feel bad for her. That's so patronizing.

I've seen people justify her behaviour by saying she's lonely. Tough shit get a hobby. Being starved for affection has never justified being an abuser.

I've seen people insist she truly cares about Odysseus because she tries to talk him down from suicide... but an abuser talking you down from taking drastic measures to escape their abuse isn't them showing genuine care, it's them not wanting the game to end, it's them exerting control over your very life. If anything, it's more disturbing because she is the one who drove him to be suicidal. So she's playing this game where she drives him to the precipice and then tries to lure him back down with "reminders" of "their love", those reminders actually being of the words of his dead loved ones that she's pilfered and warped as though they were her own.

The most ridiculous argument I've seen in defending Calypso's behaviour is saying that we can't use terms like "rapist" for her because "it was a different time" so "it's not certain whether or not what she did would be considered non-consensual for the time"... Like must I even point out that... that sleeping with someone against their will has always been and will always be rape? Anyway, her actions fit the ancient definition of rape to a t anyhow, so it's weird to try and weaponize "cultural differences" for the sake of having plausible deniability in Calypso's favour. Rape is also used to mean kidnapping, which is why we have pieces titled the Rape of Ganymede, the Rape of Persephone, etc..

Even if Jorge were to come out and say that, somehow, nothing sexual took place on Calypso's island in seven years, that despite her explicitly telling Odysseus that his "no" means nothing to her as a goddess she somehow never went so far as to sexually assault him... it doesn't make her abuse any less bad that she spared him that one trauma! Like holy shit dude.

Imagine if there was an adaptation that featured Zeus' rape of Io, and the audience responded to every literally dehumanizing action Zeus took against Io by saying "ooohh but he's lonely. i feel bad for him the most he's just a widdle lonely baby man. his wife is so meaaan."

[qqueenofhades]

I suddenly thought of an interesting question. What is the purpose of democracy? Is it democracy for democracy's sake? democracy exists to protect human rights. Voting is one of the most typical expressions of democracy, but if, due to the tyranny of the majority—the so-called ‘will of the people’—the human rights of the country’s citizens are actually severely harmed (as in the case of this U.S. election), what then? Does democracy, at this stage, still have any meaning to uphold?I mean, suppose, at this moment, one party were to take power through undemocratic means, such as election manipulation, a coup, or assassination, but this party’s policies were, comparatively, more protective of human rights than the opposing party’s. From an objective standpoint of justice, should it be supported at this stage?🤔

I think this is indeed an interesting question and I'll try to answer it in two parts.

First, the idea that "democracy exists to protect human rights" is a considerably recent idea, and doesn't actually figure much into classical expressions/conceptions of democracy. As it was originally practiced in Athens, it had nothing to do with safeguarding the rights of marginalized groups (indeed, if anything, the opposite). It was just a system where groups of people, i.e. property-owning citizen men, were allowed to make decisions collectively, but it was still able to be adjourned at any time for a despot (in the classical sense) to resume autocratic authority. It just means a system in which the people (demos) have authority (kratia). That means, therefore, who constitutes as a "person" under the law is one of the longest-running questions (and struggles) in the entire history of the concept.

As it was then thought about in the Enlightenment and the 18th-century context in which the founding fathers wrote the US Constitution, "democracy" was very much the same idea of a small group of "worthy" but ordinary men making decisions in a quasi-elected framework, rather than as a single inherited monarchy. There was still no particular idea that "human rights" was a goal, and would have been foreign to most political theorists. There was an emerging idea of "natural rights" wherein man (and definitely man) was a specially rational creature who had a right to have a say in his government, but yet again, that depended on who was viewed as qualified to have that say. (The answer being, again, white property-owning Christian men.) There have been many constitutional law papers written on how much the founding fathers trusted the American electorate (not very) and how the American government was deliberately designed to work inefficiently in order to slow down the implementation of possibly-stupid decisions (but therefore also potentially-helpful ones). The Electoral College, aside from being an attempt to finesse the slavery question (did slaves count as people for purposes of allotting House representatives? James Madison famously decided they counted as three-fifths of a person), was a further system of indirect republicanism. Likewise, US Senators were not popularly elected on a secret ballot, the same as the president, until the passage of the 17th Amendment in 1913.

Of course at the same time in the 19th-early 20th century, the Civil War, Reconstruction and its end, Jim Crow, women's suffrage movements, were all ongoing, and represented further challenge and revision of what "democracy" meant in the American context, and who counted as a legally recognized person who was thus entitled to have their say in government. It was not until Black people and women began insisting that they did in fact count as people that there was any universal idea of "human rights" as expressed in popular democratic systems. This further developed in the 20th century in the world war context, and then in the decolonization waves in the 1950s and 1960s that dismantled European imperialism and gave rise to a flood of new nation-states. Etc. etc., the Civil Rights movement in America, the gay rights movement starting with Stonewall, and further expansion of who was seen as a person not just in the physical but the legal and actionable sense.

That's why we have political philosophy concepts of "electoral" and "liberal" democracies, and why they're not quite the same. In an electoral democracy, people have the right to vote on and elect their leaders, but there may be less protection of associated "liberal" rights such as freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom of expression and assembly, and other characteristics that we think of in terms of protected groups and individual rights. Liberal democracies make a further commitment to protect those rights in addition to the basic principle of voting on your leaders, but as noted, democracy does not inherently protect them and if you have a system where a simple majority vote of 49% can remove rights from the other 48%, you have a problem. Technically, it's still democracy -- the people have voted on it, and one side voted more than the other -- but it's not compatible with justice, which is a secondary question and a whole other debate.

In the modern world, autocrats have often been popularly elected, which is technically a democratic process, but the problem is that once they get there, they start dismantling all the civic processes and safeguards that make the country a democracy, and make it much harder for the opposition to win an election and for power to meaningfully change hands. See for example India (Narendra Modi/BJP), Turkey (Recep Tayyip Erdoğan/AKP), Poland (Jarosław Kaczyński/PiS), Hungary (Viktor Orbán/Fidesz), Russia (Vladimir Putin/United Russia) and America (Donald Trump/GOP). Some of these countries were more democratic than others to start with, but all of them have engaged in either significant democratic erosion or full authoritarian reversion. The US is not -- yet -- at the latter stage, as I have written about the features of the system that make it different from other countries on that list, but it's in the danger zone.

Lastly, the idea of "we're morally better and protect human rights but are willing to launch a coup/assassination/etc of the current government" has been claimed many, many times throughout history. It has never been the case. Not least since if a party in a democratic system, however flawed, is willing to throw aside the core feature of that system, they simply don't respect human rights in any meaningful sense. That's why we kept having "the people's revolutions," especially in the 20th century, that promised to uphold and liberate the working class and all ended up as repressive communist dictatorships functionally indistinguishable from the autocracies or even quasi-democracies they had replaced. In this day and age, does anyone want Online Leftists, who will cancel and viciously attack fellow leftists for tiny disagreements on the internet, deciding that they're going to overthrow the government and announce themselves the great protector of human rights? Aside from the fact that they couldn't do it even if they ever tried and stopped being insane keyboard warriors, I don't think anyone would believe them, and nor should they, because violent antidemocratic groups are bad. This is the sixth-grade level explanation, but it's true.

If you're so drastically committed to your ideology that you're willing to destroy everyone else for not agreeing (and even then, post-revolution, the revolutionaries always start eating each other), then you're not special or enlightened. You're the exact same kind of ideological zealot who has been responsible for most of the worst atrocities throughout history. When "I need to kill for my beliefs but I'll clearly only kill the right people" is your guiding philosophy, the "right people to be killed" quickly expand past any controls or laws. Why not, especially when you've just declared the law to be invalid? Pretty soon you're into death-squads and extrajudicial-assassinations territory, and no matter how soaringly noble your aims were to start with, you've become much worse than what you replaced.

This does not mean "we all have an obligation to obey oppressive governments because the alternative is worse," which has been likewise used by the oppressive governments who benefit from it. It just means that if a democracy is violently overthrown, what emerges from it -- no matter how nice their rhetoric might initially sound -- will invariably be much worse. Winston Churchill famously remarked that democracy is the worst form of government except for all the alternatives, and in this, I tend to agree with him. It sucks, but there's nothing that has yet been invented that can take its place or that has any interest in protecting human rights in the way that 21st-century liberal democracy has generally accepted it has an obligation to do, however partial, flawed, and regressive it can often be. Indeed right now, in this particular historical moment, the only feasible alternative is quite clearly far-right populist fascist theocratic authoritarianism, and that -- for you fortunate Americans who have never lived under anything like that -- is much, much worse. So yeah.

[acourtofthought]

TLDR; Because people have gone so far left, they've gone right. Their "wokeness" has led them to completely disregard someone's trauma in the bigger picture. They seem to think Elriels are using Gwyn's SA as a reason Gwynriel can't happen, when Elriels are just trying to be respectful and patient with Gwyn's own trauma to allow her to show some interest in someone before we ship her with anyone.

Longer Answer:

To clarify, there is nothing wrong with a survivor of SA wanting to have sex and get into a relationship. How they deal with their trauma is up to them. I've seen some survivors of SA go on a "sleeping with everyone they meet" bender and some people who can't even be around men for a long period of time. Both are heartbreaking but that is how someone deals with their trauma, and it's nobody else's business.

SA is the product of cruel entitlement. It is a real issue, one that's rampant on college campuses, remote villages, even in the highest of corporate offices. That's the harsh reality. It might be presented as a fictional concept in this book, a reason for background trauma - but it is very much real.

To say a survivor of SA cannot go on to have sex or relationships with others is wrong. That implies they are damaged goods or they are weak and broken. That's wrong.

How someone reacts and processes SA trauma is up to them. It's nobody else's business. Their trauma does not define them. But after a traumatic event like that - they have to be the one to make the call of when and if they want to pursue other relationships. On their own timeline.

When it comes to Gwyn, her stans get defensive when they see people say "Gwyn is still healing from SA trauma, I don't think she's ready for a relationship" because they think we're using it as a reason she can't be with Azriel. They think we're saying "Gwyn is damaged and weak, so she can't be with Azriel". They think we regard ALL SA survivors as being unable to carry out a relationship, healthy sex life, real love because their abuse ... and so they get all up in arms -> and honestly I'm with them on that, because THAT is a disgusting take.

But thankfully, no Elriel is saying such a heinous thing.

We are saying Gwyn specifically has not shown signs of healing from that trauma yet. She still can't leave the library at the end of ACOSF, and has once again - just been through another round of trauma in the BR getting almost attacked by a group of bloodthirsty, disgusting males. She hasn't shown any sign of blushing at Azriel or wanting to touch him or sighing after him like the other priestesses - so what is giving people the indication that she has healed from this trauma and is ready for a relationship?

Like, let me put it this way. If I open the next ACOTAR book and it's somehow about Gwyn & Azriel, I still think Gwyn wouldn't be ready to be in a relationship, even if Azriel is her mate. I still think it would take time for her to feel comfortable around men. Even if he were to be her mate ... somehow - I don't think she is going to suddenly flip a switch and have fantasies of him and have them sneak around having sex between the shelves in the library.

I do not think she is there yet. The most "interest" she has shown during sex is when she:

1. Teased Nesta about Cassian (again not talking about her OWN interest)

2. Talked about how her virginity, her ability to participate in the great Rite had been taking away from her by Hybern's men when they SA-ed her. ... (do I even need to explain how this isn't her being ready to have sex ... it's literally her being upset they took yet another thing from her....?)

And then she gets traumatized again from the BR. And then goes back into the library.

Does that sound like someone is well and healed and ready to pursue a relationship?

No. At least not in my opinion. And listen, I could be wrong - I could open the next ACOTAR Book (when I'm 50 at this rate) and it starts of with a graphic sex scene with Gwyn. I'll eat my words then, idc. But I'm saying right now - it doesn't seem to me like Gwyn is ready for ANYONE.

Azriel has nothing to even do with this. There are plenty of reasons Elriels do not believe Gwynriel is a viable pairing - and it has nothing to do with whether Gwyn is ready to be in a relationship or not.

Gwyn's SA trauma is not something I've seen any Elriel bring up as a reason as to why Azriel & Gwyn can't be together. The main reason we don't ship them together is because

1. We didn't see anything romantic between them in the first place

2. We don't believe that they're mates just because of the word "spark"

3. Elain exists, and she is the current object of all of Azriel's affections

Gwyn's trauma does not make the list. I don't even know where this argument came from but I suspect it was somewhere along the lines of "Gwyn & Azriel don't make any sense, I don't think she's even ready for a relationship yet after ACOSF" and the GAs purposefully twisted our words to say "YOU GUYS ARE SAYING SA VICTIMS CANT HAVE RELATIONSHIPS AND THats why you hate Gwynriel!"

Like no, babes. I'll believe Gwyn is ready to pursue a relationship or sex with someone else when she initiates it. It's literally as simple as that 🤷🏻‍♀️

And that goes for all characters, not just victims of SA or other abuse. You can ship whoever you want of course, even if they don't show romantic interest.

But to claim that ship is canon, that ship is going to be endgame - you need to show me in the text where either character shows some romantic attraction to the other.

It's actually a little sad how you come into my anons thinking you're doing me a favor "clearing something up" for me when the reality is that everything you said is completely false while you try so hard to convince yourself it's canon.

Elain is NOT the current object of Az's attention. Was she for the months between the two Solstices? Sure. But Mor was also the object of his attention at the same time. His longing stares at Mor were fewer and farther between however that does not equal zero which means there were still looks being sent her way. He was pissy towards Helion over Mor for heavens sake. However beyond the three days after Solstice there is absolutely no evidence of Elain being the object of Az's interest just as there is absolutely no evidence of Az being the object of Elain's interest. One would say Elain has revoked any consent she offered Az with the return of his gift yet somehow you think it's ok to ship them in a sexual relationship? Or are you of the thought that girls can't retract consent once it's given?

You're splitting hairs. You say it's not right for the fandom to ship a Gwynriel endgame which would include a sexual relationship because Gwyn hasn't specifically stated "I want to hook up with him" or come on to Az yet it's ok for you to push a sexual relationship on Elain that she no longer seems to want. A sexual relationship on Az that he no longer seems to want. The end of SF took place 4 /5 months after Solstice. The events of HOFAS about 7 and there is absolutely no canon evidence that he even thinks of Elain in that way anymore. If you're so sure he's over Mor after longing for her for 500 years then surely it's believable that he's move past a crush he had for a year tops?

Also, if you're fine with fanart / fanfiction of Elain and Az engaging in kinky sex than you're a hypocrite.

Elain was willing to kiss Az but where is the text that proves she was ready to do more than that after she was violated by being put into the Cauldron. You don't even know whether she would have enjoyed the kiss. Had they followed through SHE could have pulled back and said it was a mistake. She could have walked away feeling nothing. Trust me it happens. I spent over a year lusting after a guy but the timing was never right for us. When we finally had our chance it was extremely awkward. For whatever reason the pining for him created more tension and chemistry than the chemistry we actually had together.

Also, you thinking Gwyn isn't ready for a relationship doesn't really matter does it? You can dislike what Sarah writes, you can wish she'd gone in a different direction but your personal feelings play no part in what will actually happen. And when you look at Sarah's writing she clearly has no issues allowing characters to move forward from SA in a shortened timeline (i.e., Rhys with Feyre). It's already been 2 years and 7 months for Gwyn, Rhys ended up mated to Feyre 5 months after his SA. Gwyn doesn't have to show an insatiable desire for sex in Nesta's book when she can simply reveal that in her own. Nobody is acting like it's wrong to ship Emerie and Mor when Emerie wasn't saying things like "damn, I need to get laid."

Gwyn has ABSOLUTELY shown signs of beginning to heal from trauma. She spent two years afraid to be around anyone but those in the library and within a few months of training she was already fine being alone with Az on the rooftop of Solstice evening. How is that not growth? Alone with a man and smiling at him? Sassing him after Solstice rather than pulling even further into herself?

You can sit on your high horse and proclaim you need the text to support Gwyn's feelings on the situation before you're "ok" with it and that's fine, you do you. But let's not pretend you actually give a shit about an imaginary character who has no actual feelings when real life survivors will tell you they're inspired by the thought of a Gwynriel endgame yet you care little about what they have to say.

Especially when you're the same people who ship Vassa and Lucien despite us having no idea whether Vassa prefers men or women. Despite Lucien having also been SA yet you've got no problem convincing yourselves he desires Vassa, will end up with Vassa, despite him only showing longing for Elain (his mate). So no, it does not appear you actually need confirmation of romantic interest before proclaiming them canon or endgame.

Also, it's ok that you don't see the potential romantic setup for Gwynriel right now despite so many that do. Surprises are part of the fun of reading, right?

But as things currently stand Az and Gwyn's "non interest" in one another seems to hold a lot more potential than "he hadn't gotten that far with his planning, certainly not beyond the fantasies he pleasured himself to".