"If I molest you enough, you'll like my touch eventually"

"Me, approaching fandoms with a wrench: I'm going to either fix you or hit you, it's up to you to decide."

Later: "I don't understand why people bother hating my work. Ugh, the nerve!"

The memes write themselves: a girl with a partially shaven head, with the remaining strands dyed a neon-pink blabbering on about why people leave her story 60% of the way through, while complaining that people who don't write comments on her story are worse than those who don't read it at all.

Once again, I ask: what happens when someone leaves a comment that isn't so peachy? You get the author complaining about the 'nerve' of people who dared leave such a comment.

However, such comments are warranted. This is a rare pair that seldom involves consent, and for a good reason: when you feature the Marquis de Sade, the man who helped spawn the term 'sadism', you are bound to get one-sided relationships mired in sexual coercion and abuse. Thankfully, the pairing is rare, but the fics that exist are nonetheless disturbing. The author featured here wrote a few fics featuring de Sade and a particular French Assassin, none of which scream 'love'. As a matter of fact, these fics have been bothering me for a while, and with no other outlet but here, it is fitting to have them skewered on display.

The tags say it all. 'UWU' is used unironically. There is 'gentle' strangling, and a 'first time topping'. Might as well dive into it like the dick, eh?

He hasn’t even felt anything. The air growing thick of perfume. The presence of someone uninvited. The intrusion. The marquis smiles holding a letter.

“Oh, that joyful and naive poetry of youth... Especially the Alpine piece, where mademoiselle pictures both of you herding little goats. Extremely touching as I find it.”
He lifts and stretches a corner of his lips, showing his teeth and a sharp, almost predatory canine; and only then he moves his eyes upward, waiting for reaction and getting it immediately. Arno points at the parchment fiercely.
“Who gave you the right?”
“Gave?” De Sade raises his brows; he paints them black and pains Arno with his carefree tone. “Frankly, I took it myself, wasn’t that tricky. You don’t seem to lock the doors at night, do you? The times are uneasy now...”

Just imagine it: a pervert and a man known to solicit underage girls (and possibly boys) for sex and who went to prison multiple times for sexual cruelty, breaks into your room and rummages through your personal belongings. Arno's letters are from the love of his life; one of the worst ways to damage anyone's trust is to peek through, destroy, or intend to destroy items belonging to a loved one, whether they are alive or are departed. It's no way to set up a sex scene, but as we can see here, that's exactly what it's for.

A convulsion pierces Arno from head to toes, as if the waters of Seine just pulled back and he discovered all that’s been hidden there in the mud for ages; as if the hands of the marquis just traveled through his guts with a wicked curiosity, plunging so deep, to the very elbow, rolling his kidneys playfully like the river pebbles, plucking a raceme from his lungs. Arno is always driven by the instincts. The letter is a feather, slowly falling back into the casket; the gaze of de Sade is a viper, slowly slithering up the unsheathed sword, along with the faltering lights of a chandelier and fractured reflections of the dark room. He puts down the carved cover that crumples and crushes a white paper corner, sticking out. Arno clenches the handle; there is just a couple of inches between the sharp steel and the sharp chin.

“My dear boy, the threats are of no use at all unless you bring them into effect.”

“That I’m about to do.”

Were this not a one-sided sexual relationship, this descriptive language would actually be good. Unfortunately, it's wasted. It's meant to sprinkle sugar on an acidic treat. Taunting someone with letters belonging to a still living (or dead) love is a really shitty thing to do, gay or straight.

Arno is annoyed, Arno is confused; he approaches, slowly and cautiously, as if by stepping on the same spot where the heels of de Sade have trodden recently, he can fall in a carefully set trap.

“What do you need? Why are you here?” 

He's going to fuck you, boy, and you're going to like the molestation until it gives you pleasure.

 His moves are steady, measured even; Arno startles when a wave of discordant singing bursts down in the cafe − and when a hand flies up to his face. He growls, shielding himself, crumples the bracelets, heavy of gems − they prick the wrist, the pale veins and his own palm; de Sade’s grin widens, but still he tries and reaches, strained, until he’s close enough to take off the hood. Arno freezes. The shadows soaked by the bookshelves are suddenly too shallow to hide him again, and so he’s standing naked, exposed, hold up for derision, almost knocked senseless. The marquis slides his fingers softly over Arno’s, between them, through them, takes the sword aiming at the ground, and then he pulls Arno closer by the belt and harshly pushes the blade back into its sheath. The hissing sound is like a whip, slowly creeping along the spine; Arno feels his nostrils trembling. The belt clanks falling down, and Arno shudders heavily.

I keep telling myself these are the people who keep decrying rape culture. Yet, when a man doesn't want a pervert in his room, touching him, he's just going to roll with it because he's 'in the moment'. He's being mocked and derided, as the text says, and he's just going to bend over and take it all because that's just what good boys do.

“Don’t you find it entertaining, dear Arno? For it is I...” he unfastens the chainlet of Arno’s coat under his chin and extrudes the big plain buttons through the buttonholes. “...who should be...” he walks around him slowly, following his steps with the hand gliding over Arno’s shoulder, the shoulder blades, stinging with tension, the tied hair, and the coat drops down under his touch like an animal skin. “...scared.”

Eyes to eyes; Arno hastily grabs his throat, spurns him away − one foot away, two. He wants to snap that he isn’t fucking scared, this isn’t fear, or fright, or− A long and thin smile splits up the marquis’ face. He steps forward, pressing with his Adam’s apple, moans out a strangled exhale into the space that just appeared between them and is already gone; his eyelids flickering.

“You will need an endeavor much fierce to actually hurt me.”

So, it's been established Arno is deeply uncomfortable with this whole thing, and he's afraid enough not to use brute force to throw the motherfucker out. Why not? Well, Reasons, that's why. The Marquis in-game - and this is the version used of him - is skinny. Were this the real Marquis, he'd be too fat to move around this much (him being obese would also be a major buzzkill).

Yeah. What's that about consent?

It takes one more step to make his moan hoarse and wither; Arno, suddenly stubbed with confusion, doubt and shame, draws his hand back, and then the gasping mouth kisses him. De Sade is so eager, so demanding, so responsive that Arno’s first impulse is to recoil away from the tongue, the opened lips, the hands slowly cutting through the next layer of his clothes − the vest, one clasp by one, downward from the head, like gutting a fish. Arno slides his palm to the side of the marquis’ neck and up a little, to the nape where the true color of his hair peeps from under the constricting dryness of a starch, and snatches the wig, that stupid tribute to the ridiculous fashion. The marquis’ hair is dark, slightly wet and tied into a ponytail that comes apart under the rough caress. The scarlet bow on Arno’s neck almost chokes him, the stiff collar cuts into his skin, and he tugs on them blindly while de Sade is too busy dissolving into his own ravenous slowness. They undress until there’s nothing left on him, and nothing but the tangle of beadings and silk ribbons left on the marquis.

Real talk: if someone is feeling some form of doubt, least of all shame, during any sexual act, that's a good sign for you to stop. Sex ceases to be sex the minute someone is uncomfortable or does not want you touching them. If you are recoiling at their kiss, but eventually 'get into it' after constant pressure, you aren't consenting. That is called sexual coercion. 

But no, they both get naked anyways, because who's really calling the shots here?

The heels have robbed him of two inches, but still he looks down at Arno as if seeking to peek into his mind and corrupt those parts of it that remained untouched. And so he touches with an unexpected strength, with an expected obsceneness, following the natural lines of Arno’s body, strokes his buttock and palms it so firmly that Arno feels where the soft fingertips end and the short nails begin, and then he shrinks when they trace the path from his lower back to his front and settle between his legs. 

Again, this is a guy whose most famous work (considered feminist by some) is the repeated rape and sodomy of 14-year-old girls by multiple men. It helps to read 120 Days of Sodom, not to be a Puritan, but to actively understand what it was the real Marquis was thinking when he wrote it, as well as the sexual fetishes and activities he helped inspire.

If you want to 'corrupt' someone into things they might not otherwise do, that is sexual coercion. If you are shrinking away from someone touching your genitalia, but go along with it, that's sexual coercion.

Come on, they teach this in CSE. Why is it difficult for sane adults to understand, especially when they demand it so much?

He kisses Arno on the lips, on the bottom half of them, briefly, with some laziness or something that maybe can be called fondness, and then he falls on his knees, holding onto Arno’s shoulders, his scarred arms, his shuddering hips; he does this without breaking the line connecting their eyes − Arno’s, hidden under the heavy and gloomy lashes; Sade’s, framed with the wide-open lids, − even for a second. The line is broken anyway as the sight becomes unbearable.

As another fic with rape in it said, 'physiological responses do not argue consent.' Most men - straight or gay - adore blowjobs. If they're looking away because the sight and the act is unbearable, say it with me now: THEY DO NOT WANT YOU TOUCHING THEM.

They make love ardently and effusively, although this is not love at all, of course, − an act of madness, a downfall into the abyss even darker than the night outside their windows, a violation of the humans’ laws and God’s, already coming apart at their seams under the cuts of a hidden blade.

I am blessed - I can't believe I'm saying this - that for all the few fics there are of this pairing, the sex was not graphic.  But, once again, if a man doesn't want a blowjob, and he doesn't want you touching them or views the sex with shame and humiliation, congrats: you forced yourself on him, and he may not be courageous enough to say 'no'. This touches on the freeze response:

In sexual assaults and severe harassment, there’s often a critical moment when the attack is detected and brain and body instantly and automatically enter a completely different state.
Up to that point, the person may have experienced what was happening (even if it was unpleasant, unwanted, and somewhat stressful) as basically normal and consistent with their expectations of how things go in such situations: how people tend to kiss and touch each other in (awkward) romantic situations, how pushy dates can act, and how boorish bosses can be inappropriate.
But then something happens that flips the script or massively escalates the stress, and the brain’s defense circuitry not only detects an unexpected attack, but automatically and involuntarily triggers strong brain and body responses.
This is detection freezing, and to describe it people often say, “I froze for a second.” 

Just because a person may not physically fight you, mentally, they may not want you anywhere near them but because the act shocks them so, they cannot find it within themselves to vocalize their distress. This is a common reaction and should not be interpreted as "oh, he/she was just asking for it, because they never said no."

The dawn is faint. Arno is chilled by the creeping realization; his damp and tensed body is chilled too − by the wind, carrying the smell of smoke, and street sewage, and imminence of disaster, awaiting to devour the city. He speaks, huddling up a little:

“You can stay... ‘til morning. But I insist on your leaving before the cafe opens.” 

You were coerced into sex. You feel shame because this asshole forced you into it. It's not on you. And it should never be - but the author doesn't care about that. Why should she? Convince a person their molestation was wanted enough and they'll internalize it. Works every time, right?

Arno springs from the bed without caring to listen to further explanations, and de Sade’s grin grows longer, and his eyes begin to wander all over him, − Arno senses it like a blade of a knife, flying down his collarbones, but all he finds is his own embarrassing nudity and a pink ribbon tied around his neck. He yanks at the silk, but just makes the knot tighter; he yanks the blanket from the bed, yanks the letter from de Sade’s hands.

“He left the city! At night!” Arno snatches the words out angrily; it is too late now. His blood and thoughts seethe. “You knew it all along!”

“Perhaps...” the marquis slightly nods. “You could, oh, you surely could have climbed the nearest roof and followed the carriage to maybe even collect the crumbs of conversation. Or... upon his return you can find out if there are some... surprising news.”

Arno almost snarls.

“That was up to me to decide!”

Sucks to be you, dude. You were coerced into sex and the guy peeking through your letters happened to tie you up with pink ribbons while lying about his motives. Oh yeah, I'm super wet now. 

Arno throws the letter away, dashes to his belt and fumbles through it feverishly for a dagger to hook and to cut the knot, and after it’s gone he looks, dumbstruck, at the rings of silk snakes coiling up next to his bed.

It says something about your skill when you allow yourself to be fooled so easily. But I shouldn't be so harsh. You were coerced, and the man had something you wanted but didn't give away. Compared to the fics where de Sade openly sodomizes Arno, this was pretty tame. But it's not the first violator.

Here's the second. 

I should probably find it a convenience that Oscar Wilde is being quoted here. If the rumours about him are true, he, too, was a pederast (or, at least that was what he was convicted for).

Alas, the sexual coercion continues.

So, he attacks first, snapping at the unsaid greeting − of such kind which the marquis would find the most indecent; gritting his teeth, Arno orders him to leave a letter somewhere around and get out, and grows cold when de Sade asks with a surprise as genuine as teasing:

This truly is an unwritten trope, isn't it? The 'If I coerce you enough, you'll love me.' Or, 'If I coerce you enough, you'll have no choice but to have sex with me.' If someone is demanding you to get out of their personal space, you should probably get the fuck out. Not so, here.

“A letter? Oh...” he approaches, and Arno fixes his eyes on a random line of the documents scattered in front of him, as if the paper with faded inks can fence him from someone else’s desires. “I didn’t know you were expecting any letters from me, dear Arno. Well, now I must keep it in mind; do you prefer love poetry of Ronsard, or maybe−” he pauses, enjoying the moment, “−the lewd lines of le Petite?”

Arno rears. A smile is gathering in the corners of the marquis’ eyes and on his lips.

You know how women hate being sent dick pics by random men on the Internet, and how these beta boys react when said women refuse? This is similar to that. Except it's not dick pics, it's demanding sex with no subtlety. Citing lewd French literature is a sure way to piss someone off - or, in this case, piss them off enough to force them to sleep with you.

Arno warily follows him with his eyes until de Sade’s out of sight, and his shoulders lift and tense reflexively, as if ready to endure some beating. De Sade is behind his back, unseen, unheard, but Arno feels the oppressing warmth, the fragrance of lavender, heavy as a punch in the gut, the obscure danger − and a wet exhale, with that place on his skin which is exposed by his slipped collar. De Sade doesn’t even touch him, he just moves Arno’s hair away from behind his neck to his front, and his soft voice is only a bit louder than Arno’s blood thumping in his ears:

“You can take me with all your seething youthful rage...” Arno tightly clenches his jaw. “...or maybe I better take you myself?” and unclenches it as de Sade presses his lips, his teeth, his tongue right under Arno’s earlobe, then lower, and lower − lingering every time until it pulls and hurts indistinctly.

Imagine that. If a person doesn't want to sleep with you, threaten that you're going to rape them. That definitely gets the juices flowing. What obscure danger? This is what you really want, isn't it Arno? You aren't saying no, so it means you're just asking for it, right?

They never talk about this. The marquis maybe does − with someone else, or in his lecherous drafts, but nor with Arno. His behavior is cavalier, he comes when he wishes to, always knowing exactly the proper time to catch Arno at the cafe; and it’s like a hook to his stomach − the chilling sensation of countless eyes following his every step, and in his head there is a constant thought of beggars, initiated into the secrets they are not supposed to. It seems now even the skies can stain him. Arno demands:

“Call off your rats. They have enough people to keep their eyes on.”

De Sade laughs at this.

Now, going off the previous, 'If you won't take me, I'll take you myself' line, how does this sound? Arno willingly having sex with this lecher, and being cavalier about it to the point that everyone in the Cafe knows? Doesn't sound discreet to me. Then again, that's de Sade spreading the rumours of his sexual conquests, not Arno.

“And here, I’ve imagined the mind of a man who has known the killing of a human being, cannot be abashed by anything at all...” he glances at Arno peacefully over his shoulder and says only: “I’ve been mistaken,” and Arno forcedly averts his eyes. De Sade continues, with a great relish thumbing through the pages: “However, disgust is the most honest of feelings, devoid of those illusions which surround fascination so frequently. Disgust arouses the curiosity. You read it to the last word anyway, didn’t you?”

'You're disgusted but I know you really, really want it and if I send you enough of these letters you'll eventually consent to my advances.'

I'm sure the author would be pleased to know that disgust of anything related to the anus happens to be hereditary. I wager not, given the long list of favourites involving men getting deep-throated and spitroasted (however, given the author's appearance, it's no secret as to why).

De Sade is noisy, and unbearable, and he doesn’t hide behind any excuses, while Arno makes excuses to himself every goddamn second of his life, as well as to those who’ve left him long ago. In the mornings the marquis is the first one to wake up, even before the servants; Arno doesn’t even feel de Sade climbing over him. Squinting sleepily, Arno gloomily unties a long ribbon from his ankle, while de Sade adjusts his wig in a tiny hand mirror. 

I reckon he's noisy on purpose to show his sexual conquest. While Arno isn't new to making excuses, it's clear this level of making excuses as to why he keeps entering this one-sided relationship smacks of psychological conditioning. It's Stockholm Syndrome in a way: you go back to your captor because they were the one offering you security. If you are 'gloomy' after sex, untying ribbons and other restraints from a BDSM session you didn't want, I'll say it again: THIS PERSON DID NOT WANT YOU TOUCHING THEM.

Arno demonstratively crumples the silk and throws it into the burnt out chimney, but the marquis doesn’t seem to be disappointed even in the slightest, and Arno stays silent in his helpless anger, without knowing what to say or do to wound de Sade in return. There is no end to those foolish ribbons. Arno takes them off his neck, and his wrists, and untwines them out of his hair as soon as he finally notices silk in his locks, and then he watches how the thin silvery strip flows through his fingers, purple as his bruises left after the missed blows, hasty roof leaps − and hungry lingering kisses. 

Again, why are you helpless, if you keep going back to this sexual relationship you don't want? Could it be you were coerced into it, and since you can't vocalize your shame or are too ashamed to say anything, it means you were asking for it all along?

I've tried giving breaks to some aspects of BDSM for fairness' sake. But the moment someone breaks that trust, that established code where one party doesn't want you going to far, you are the party taking advantage of the other. You hold the reigns, the other does not. Knowing this, you continue to use and abuse them because you love their body but not their soul. If you love their soul, you only love it to corrupt it. Nothing more.

The marquis whispers, tightening his knots on Arno, he whispers, leaning close to his clenched lips, that no life is long enough to try everything he wants to do with him, but Arno doesn’t have a life, for it has been offered to those in need, and those who will never live again, and those who rejected him. De Sade moves as if in trance, up and down on Arno’s hips, harshly, then stops to let another peak calm a little, and Arno, exhausted and almost cut by the stretching, razor-sharp fabric and wooden headboards, struggles to break free until one board falls out, yielding to his fingers, seizing it stiff, and that’s when de Sade startles, astonished, and releases himself on Arno’s heaving stomach. 

I had actually written a review over this, pointing out that if Arno was ripping out the headboards because he doesn't want to be restrained, that doesn't speak much about consent, does it? Naturally, the comment was removed, presumably because the author didn't want to be faced with a bit of common sense.

Arno, being straddled here and too focused on being free from his restraints and this sexual act, is making it clear he doesn't want this. He has no autonomy or say; the Marquis does. Now, he has to deal with the physical result of this unfairness: he's got to clean up all that ejaculate.

In the brief hours of night oblivion the marquis is surprisingly restrained, and almost nothing gives out his presence; Arno keeps settling for sleep on the very edge of his bed, never looking back at him and leaving as much space between them as necessary to avoid any accidental contact. Arno’s tormented hands keep him restless. It’s still dark when he props himself on the elbows, annoyed with soreness, and freezes at the sight of the marquis sitting in silence and static stiffness.

I agree this is night oblivion. It's one-sided as to be a picture-perfect excuse as to what an unhealthy relationship is. If your partner is sleeping on the edge of the bed, to get away from you as much as possible, and does not want to share eye contact, maybe, just maybe - they don't want you touching them. Body language is everything: eye contact, mutual touching, giggles, kissing - all these are signs the sex was good and you enjoyed it, even if it was a one-night stand. Here Arno doesn't want to touch the Marquis at all. What does that tell you? Does he enjoy the sex, or is he being coerced?

Arno reclines back on his pillow, trying not to pay attention to the movement behind him, when everything at once falls dead inside of him as the marquis’ fingers touch his skin. Arno is almost numb, like a sleep paralysis is clenching his heart. The marquis caresses his shoulder, his arm, slides with his palm across Arno’s ribs, up his stomach and across his chest until his hand slips down on the other side, and Arno is trapped under it. For a long while Arno is lying still, staring into the shadows swirling in the room, then he puts the relaxed hand off of him, and lies there for as long as the morning haze needs to find its way through the crack between the curtains.

Post coital touching is everything. If the characters feel good about what they did, and enjoyed what they did, they'll have no issue touching each other afterwards. It's a non-vocalized way of saying, 'you did good' or 'I like you'. It varies among couples; there are those who have hate sex who promptly leave after the act is done, but again - there was a mutual agreement there. Neither side had to accept. But if you're feeling paralyzed after a sexual act, and you feel dead inside when someone touches you, and you have to physically remove their hand off of you, congrats. You're not writing sex. You're almost writing sexual assault - a little bit more force and I'll call it rape.

De Sade is too close, he’s too much; freedom and permissiveness make him tipsy, he is curious and greedy for what is forbidden, and if one door is closed from him, he’ll find another one as soon as he gets from an old noose into a new one. Arno is enraged when he has to march him out of the crowded hall on a theatrical evening, or when he orders him to keep away from sneaking around the cafe, or when he finds him in the tower on top of the Theatre, surrounded by the mute silhouettes in their niches, bloodily stained with the setting sun.

“This is not your house or your beggar kingdom! You abuse your position!” Arno advances, but the marquis doesn’t retreat, he only looks at Arno calmly, blankly even, with his half-lidded eyes and with no sight of any defiance. “You don’t give a damn about what people may think, because you don’t give a damn about people, and you keep using me!”

Yes, Arno. He's using you. And if you have to physically drag him out from your establishment because he's snooping around to seek you out for sex, you need to either kill the motherfucker or show him you mean business. Women have beheaded their rapists for less.

“What kind of mystery is hidden in this old-fashioned watch with still hands?”

“How do you−” Arno gathers himself up, as if it can protect him from the ubiquitous hands; he feels as if he’s been robbed. “Damn it... de Sade!” the name goes out like a hiss through his teeth.
The marquis sighs.
“It was left in plain sight.”
“Which doesn’t mean− It’s not your business! Not yours, not anyone else’s!”
“However,” the marquis gestures with his goblet at the roofs of the Theatre and distant stripes of streets, “it is only you and me in here.”

First, he tries to steal your love letters. Now, he's taken your father's watch - the one thing you have of his memory. Instead of going into a rage, you enter that freeze response again, and allow him to mellow you out and use you to his own leisure.

'One-sided' is barely enough to cover this pairing.

Arno doesn’t know much about literature, and tries to avoid everything concerning the Brotherhood, and he deeply regrets mentioning Napoleon, for the marquis breaks into a caustic monologue which leads them into the labyrinth of politics.  

Arno was well-read on the classics and read throughout his life, so for the author to say he doesn't care says a lot, especially when, earlier, she hints at Arno knowing lewd French literature. Pick one. As for the Napoleon comment, I reckon it has to do with that specific pairing as well; probably they fucked in an opera house and de Sade, driven to jealousy, covers it up with politics. You simply cannot win.

“Mm... how do you feel about a brief but extremely intense act on inhuman lust before I leave you? Ah, and we can commune in the process, if you wish so.”

Arno snorts. De Sade looks at him expectantly, his brows raised, and then he takes him by the chin when Arno finally leans in. The marquis’ kisses are sweet of wines, his hands are quick, and he is pliant like a melted butter.

 "Please let me sodomize you. You're too pretty to remain an anal virgin, even when I show you no care and I dominate you and force you into this sex act you clearly do not want."

He is right, Arno thinks reluctantly; he never liked this room, it wasn’t his idea to make it like this, that’s how it was before, that’s how Bellec liked it and that’s how Arno’s left everything after Bellec’s death. The cafe is not his home, it is merely a refuge, and this fact makes it weird to find the marquis here every time Arno returns

I don't see why he would hate it, considering he worked to get those outfits. Two, the Cafe is his home. His room and the other rooms were re-designed by him, not Bellec. Bellec had nothing to do with the Cafe's renovation. That was all Arno.

Arno blames himself for that weakness, for the marquis being aware of it sitting deep inside of him, but he doesn’t shun those hands anymore, entwining him in their bed, and de Sade pours him with caresses, and to these caresses Arno surrenders himself almost desperately. He fists the sheets under him, his stomach falls in, his voice breaks with chocking breaths, and Arno can’t see anything but his own messy hair. With an effort de Sade pulls Arno’s convulsively clenched knees apart and lazily stretches between them, pressing with his entire body, silk and beadings. The marquis leans in to his lips, while Arno struggles to avoid him. 

You admit you're weak to sexual coercion? For shame, my dear. If you know it's a weakness, and you know it's disgusting, a rational person would avoid it. Since you feel enamoured via psychological manipulation to stick around, you rationalize giving in to that weakness. You don't 'shun' those hands or those kisses, but you still keep your legs closed, and you want to avoid the Marquis kissing you.

It sounds like you're still shunning the contact, but the coercion is so complete you don't have the spirit to say no.

“It’s disgusting.”

“It’s you,” the marquis simply says, and his hair too falls on Arno’s face as he conquers his mouth, deeply and shamelessly. Arno sulks; de Sade chuckles, then suddenly passes his fingers over the trace of their kiss and exclaims softly: “Ah, stained you a little...” and laughs when Arno pushes him off back to the mattress.

It's both. If you 'surrender' yourself to someone, you shouldn't be sulking. The whole point of sex is giving your body to someone you trust and whom you know will respect you. If you are sulking, or resist the physical contact, say it with me again: that person does not want you touching them. 

“De Sade. You will never return there. You are under protection of the Brotherhood,” he lets go of his arm. “Under my protection.”
De Sade’s eyes are green, and his lashes are faded and thin. Arno lowers his own ones, when the marquis gently touches the scar on his cheek and says:
“Oh, my dear, dear Arno...”

Consider this ending piece of dialogue to everything beforehand: the Marquis, going through Arno's personal belongings and desecrating them; having to be thrown out of the Cafe because his exploits are known to everyone there; and moaning so load on purpose so as to let everyone know Arno is his. Despite this, despite Arno's unwillingness and physical disgust at everything the Marquis has done to him, the Marquis is under Arno's protection. Why? What for? The Marquis has his own properties and connections; he, objectively, does not need the Brotherhood in this universe. In fact, if anything, he enjoys being arrested and bribing others so he can write whatever he pleases on his own whims.

Now, add on making a man, who is disgusted by you and what you do, engage in sex with you when all his mental faculties and his reactions tell you he doesn't want you touching him. You get a contradictory, one-sided, abusive 'romance' in action that usually ends up with someone getting an ice pick through the skull. Add on an author who may very well make this a modern brothel AU, and you get someone buried in a flower pot.

Normally, I can't stand those California style consent classes, where a man has to ask a woman if he can take off her clothes bit by bit at every instance. It isn't sexy. But here I am wondering where the actual consent is, especially when in the writing itself we have an individual who shuns away contact and is ashamed at what he's doing eventually not shunning the contact but still feels gloomy over it. Does that sound sexy to you? Does that sound healthy to you? With someone with an IQ above room temperature, no. No, it does not. No one should feel gloomy, disgusted, or hesitant during sex, nor should they avoid post-coital touching if they enjoyed what they did. There's a reason why 'The Joy of Sex' was a bestseller, you know.

The tags say this was a 'caring' de Sade, and this was his attempt at courting. Tell me, does telling someone - to their face no less - that if they won't sleep with you, you'll take them with force, count as courtship? Does making them cringe at your touch count as courtship? Dragging you out of their room because you go there to sodomize them count as courtship? Making it well known that you're sodomizing an Assassin when he doesn't want you there count as courtship?

Tell me, Izzy (where you unfortunately share the same name as me): does anything count as courtship the moment unwanted touching is involved? Sexual coercion isn't a joke. Just because someone doesn't vocalize their distress does not mean they aren't distressed. There is also a degree of dissociation involved:

The problem with dissociation during sex is multi-fold. First, if the survivor is dissociated, they cannot give appropriate consent. Being able to say yes when you mean yes and no when you mean no is vital to being safe and is the polar opposite of being abused. Also, when one is dissociated one is not able to have emotional intimacy. When someone is checked-out, they may not realize that something doesn't feel good or hurts and they may be injured because they were not present enough at the time to identify their physical reactions. Finally, if a survivor is not present emotionally/psychically during sex, they are much less likely to be able to develop an inventory of what they do and don't like. Figuring out what you do and don't like sexually is a huge factor in sexual recovery.

Let me put it bluntly (again): if anyone feels discomfort, at all, during sex, and doesn't want you touching them or feels shame at what they're being initiated in, they have not and will not consent. You are sexually coercing them. You are telling them, 'If I molest you enough, you'll get used to me eventually.' It ties in to one fic I read where Arno was sodomized so badly to where he was left 'red and swollen', and de Sade told him, 'You have to accept me. You will' despite the former's cries for him to stop.

For men, it's much more difficult for them to be open about sexual abuse. It's a source of shame and they feel their masculinity has been degraded. We don't treat it the same as female rape, even though rape - regardless of age, race, sex, or class - is abhorrent and is rightfully seen as a crime. So it affects me, even when it involves fictional situations, to see male characters dehumanized. It affects me in the way that the authors usually are the first to condemn rape, yet here they are writing it and normalizing it. They will use the excuse 'Well, it's just fiction. I don't commend it in real life.'

It doesn't matter. Your writing is a reflection of your inner thoughts. I was told rape fantasies never existed for women, so it was depressing - and still is - to see that it exists in vast amounts in fandom. More so that when you tell people when there is no consent, there is no sex, the authors get angry and huff and puff about your 'nerve'.

So, Miss Pink Haired trilingual Russian (a  real shame, because speaking multiple languages is useful) whenever you come out with that modern AU, I'll be there. I may not post it on AO3 because your sensitive ass doesn't like the dick as much as the men you love fantasizing about, but I'll still be there. It'll be here, to those curious, and it'll be roasted like Dresden.

Sex ceases to be sex the minute someone feels shame over it. Regret isn't rape, sure - but if you're feeling regret or shame during the act...well. Time for someone to get the broomstick and not the dick up the ass. Given your appearance, Miss Grinch, yes, preparing for a BDSM session is hard - but who in their right mind is going to give it to you? The Crayola hair is a dead giveaway, you know.

(As a final note, unfortunately this will not be the last involving this topic and these characters. There is one fic written by a legit Frenchie, which still bothers me to this day. You'll see what I mean once it arrives.)