#claiming a wife

[sinofwriting]

Claiming - Max Verstappen (Dark Fic)

Words: 2,231 Summary: In a world where F1 drivers can claim someone as a wife while at a race, here is Max’s version. Note(s): DARK FIC, NSFW. Reader is essentially kidnapped. I’d like to thank lovey on Ko-fi for commissioning this. I had a lot of fun writing this and oh boy did it take a turn I wasn’t expecting. Takes place in 2023. Also, once again thank you to 🦢 anon for this idea and all your thoughts! Claiming wouldn’t be a thing without you.

Charles’ Version

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Since a month ago the emotion she’s felt most is confusion. From the moment a security guard and an FIA official escorted her from the grandstands to the Red Bull garage, to Max Verstappen’s drivers room. From him gently grabbing her hand and kissing the back of it, to the conference room where the FIA official explained things to her and god, she felt like she had only heard every three words, to now.

Max is the source of all her confusion, because he is confusing. He’s aggressive and dominant on track. So clearly hates press and events he’s forced to go to. If he likes you, he likes to make you laugh and make sure you’re happy. He’s attentive in a way she didn’t know was possible.

As soon as they were in Monaco after the race, after he claimed her, and she fiddles with the heavy diamond ring on her finger at the thought, he had taken her to the grocery store, claiming that his fridge and pantry were empty since he’d just come home from a triple header. She hadn’t realized then but as they walked through the grocery store he had watched her closely. Watched what shelves she paused at, what brands and items she put in the cart versus the ones she made small faces at. Making a note of them all.

It wasn’t until a few days later when someone came by to drop off groceries and she saw all that all the groceries were things and brands she likes that she started to realized that it’s quietness in the grocery store, him following behind her, hadn’t been him giving her a bit of space, some grace, but rather him making notes of what she likes.

She’s unable to hide anything from him, which is even more confusing, because he doesn’t know her. Had chosen her seemingly on a whim. When she was told why she got taken his driver’s room by the FIA official, she had thought it was some sort of prank, a joke, but as three different binders had been laid out in front of her and proof of everything had been shown to her, had proved that she had been claimed, that she was now married to Max Verstappen the odd, weird, confusing reality had sunk in.

She had honestly figured as she laid awake next to Max that night that she would be just kept at his place for quick relief. Asked to undress and roll or bend over whenever he needed a quick easy fuck along with someone to keep his place clean and cooked meals in the fridge. She hadn’t expected for him to not even touch her like that.

He did however like to look at her like that. Eyes darkening, just a little narrowed as his jaw would sometimes twitch, deep breaths through his nose. But he never touched her like that which made her more confused because he did touch her.

He kissed her hand in greeting, put his hand on her lower back, would sling an arm around her waist, put his arm over her shoulders. He’d make their legs intertwine in bed or practically blanket her with his body when he didn’t have her cuddling into him, head resting on his t-shirt covered chest. Max hadn’t even tried kissing her on the lips despite clearly wanting to with the way he would sometimes stare at them as she talked.

Max Verstappen is confusing.

—

Max knows that he was supposed to claim a wife much sooner than he did. He could have done so the day of his first win, when they pulled him aside and told him that he could. He knows that’s what they wanted. They wanted him to claim a wife, to calm down, to bring a little less negative press to the sport. Luckily it was up to him to decide and there was no way in fucking hell he was claiming a wife. He made that clear in his celebrations with the team and his private words to people about how the FIA could fuck off.

He was also lucky that Red Bull backed his decision. He was their first driver since Mark Webber to get to claim a wife, the youngest in the history of the sport. The FIA couldn’t pressure him into it or punish him for not claiming anyone yet, but they could try and flaunt options for him to choose from. And they did. They did every year at nearly every race until finally the start of the 2022 season happened and there was a number one on his car.

That didn’t mean they stopped during the 2022 season, it was just significantly less than before. And now in 2023, just a few races away from winning his third championship, they hadn’t bothered him at all. The end of Monza marked them never being able to bother him again, he thinks as he watches his wife look at the clothes he had delivered for her. His now three championship trophies somewhat framing her with how she stands in front of the large couch.

They were all in her sizes, some from brands that she already had clothes from and other’s from more luxury brands that he had to be familiar with. She liked the one a lot, her fingers kept going back to the two tops from there, rubbing the fabric. He’ll have to take her to their store after COTA, he muses. The heat in Qatar had been too much for his poor wife and it had even got the better of him.

“Do you like them?” He asks, wrapping his arms around her from behind, relishing in the sharp inhale she gives, the slight sped up breathing.

“I do. They are all really nice.”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head, making a note to not buy her anymore hoodies, or at least buy them for himself and wear them a few times. She had worn so many of his, he figured she’d want one or two of her own, but the hoodie was the only thing her eyes and fingers had not returned to. “Good. I have some jewelry coming for you tomorrow as well.”

“Oh, thank you, Max.”

“Of course, vrouw.” He smirks at the way her body shivers at the Dutch word for wife.

—

It’s been nearly three months since Monza, since Max claimed her, since she became his wife. Which means it’s been three months since the last time she got off, six months since she last had sex. The sex part she can deal with, but she doesn’t think she’s gone this long without masturbating since she learned what it was and started doing it. And it feels like it’s killing her.

Because Max… Max is handsome. She’s seen tweets and things about how Max is ugly and she can’t even begin to comprehend that. He has some of the bluest eyes she’s ever seen, a nice jaw just barely covered with facial hair, slightly pouty lips and god it kills her that she hasn’t kissed them yet, kissed the freckle that rests on his top left lip. He has broad shoulders, strong arms, large hands, fingers that make her thighs press together when they tap against her hips or press into her. And his thighs. Every time she sees them, whether it’s in shorts or boxers, she can feel herself clench around nothing.

Maybe he wouldn’t affect her so much if he didn’t so clearly want her back. But he does. His eyes more and more frequently watching her, want simmering in them. And he’s never been shy about his morning wood, but instead of tilting his hips away from her, scooting away, or just adjusting her so it’s not pressed against her, now he stays. Lets her choose to move away when she feels him against her.

She never moves away, not until they absolutely have to get up.

She’s reached her limit, however. She constantly feels turned on, a warmth always burning inside of her, sometimes getting stoked to burn a little hotter and she fears that if she doesn’t get off in the next few hours she will jump Max. It’s tempting to just get to it, just lay down and fuck herself quickly, but that won’t leave her satisfied. She needs more than one quick orgasm to satisfy herself and she’s in luck because Max is leaving the house, having been invited to a paddle match.

She accepts the kiss on the cheek he gives her, wishing him good luck and then waits by the front door for a few minutes before turning and nearly rushing to the bedroom. Her arms somehow get tangled in her tank top as she pulls it off and her fingers fumble with her pajama pants and underwear as she tries to push them down. It takes longer than she wants, but finally she’s undressed. There’s an urge to fall onto the bed, but she forces it away, forces herself to take a deep breath as she goes to their closet.

Going to one of her shoe boxes, she lifts the lid, breath shaky as her fingers touch the lace of a La Perla balconette. She had never spent more than seventy dollars on a bra before Max, had privately thought people who spent more than a hundred dollars on scraps of lace and fabric were crazy but as she feels this against her fingers, she understands why people spend so much.

Her fingers are surprisingly steady as she puts on the balconette and matching panties. As she looks at herself in the mirror, hands rubbing at the body, her breath catches. She looked good, hot even. The lace against her skin making her blood rush.

She’s nearly back into the bedroom when she spots the shirt that Max had been wearing to sleep in last night. It’s just barely hanging on the edge of the hamper, about to fall on the floor. Before she can stop herself, she snags it and throws it on, breathing in the familiar and nice smell of Max.

Laying on the bed, she runs her hands over her body, eyes fluttering shut as they go under her shirt. Her breath catches as they trail over her stomach, fingers pausing at the waistband of her panties before moving back. They trace over the lace details of her top, breath catching when the tips of her fingers catch on her pebbled nipples. Moaning as she twists and pulls at them lightly, thighs pressing together.

She continues to play with her breasts, enjoying the feel of them and the lace in her hands. Drawing moans and whines from herself as she squeezes them, pinching and twisting her nipples, grazing her nipples with the tip of her finger. She’s aching for more, her panties damp. Her dominant hand leaves her breast, fingers just about to slip into her panties and there’s a hand clamping around her wrist.

Her eyes fly open, a gasp leaving her. “Max.” Her other hand drops away from her breast.

His grip on her wrist tightens, eyes darker than she’s ever seen them. Her name comes out in a near growl.

Her tongue darts out, swiping across her bottom lip and Max’s eyes fall to them at the motion and she breaks. “Please. Max, please.”

“Please what?”

She takes a shaky breath, “Touch me, kiss me. Please, Max.”

It’s like she blinks and he’s on top of her, his hand no longer gripping her wrist but instead gripping at her hip as he kisses her. She moans at the roughness of it, not even noticing him adjusting her until he’s fully in between her legs, one of them hitched around his waist. She only notices when he grinds their hips together, the friction making her break the kiss, panting as her fingers rake over his back.

“Max. Please.”

“What vrouw? Am I not kissing you?” He presses a kiss to her neck, over the flutter of her pulse. “Touching you?” He rolls his hips into hers.

She throws her head back at the contact. “I want,” a whine leaves her as he dips his head, running his tongue over her still lace covered nipple. “Fuck, Max.”

His hand still gripping her at her hip tightens its hold and she hopes he leaves bruises. “What do you want?”

“I want,” She nearly loses her train of thought again when grinds into her again. “Want you to fuck me. Please, Max, want you so bad.”

He groans, head resting on her chest as he gives a slightly stuttered thrust.

The slight loss of control makes her moan, her other leg moving to wrap around him, encouraging him to grind against her. She wants him. She wants him to touch her everywhere, not leave a single place that hasn’t felt his touch. She wants to feel his breath against her lips, his teeth sinking into her skin. She wants the press of bruises as he holds her tighter than maybe he should. She wants him sinking into her over and over again even though she hasn’t felt it once yet. She wants and wants and she doesn’t think that doing this once, twice, a hundred, a thousand times, will satisfy that want.

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

A lot of you underestimate how prevalent British bias is not only in F1 but across sports generally, and even in other industries.

Max saying he has the wrong passport in the paddock is an accurate statement. Do you think he, Seb, or Michael would've been half as vilified by the British media if they had a British passport instead? Would Fernando? Do you think Yuki would get half as much shit about his radio "conduct" if he was British? Because it's the British commentators who consistently have issues with it, and say shit like it's "unbecoming" for a driver to speak that way, ignoring that 1 it's not his first language and 2 IT WAS ENGLISH PEOPLE HE LEARNT THAT LANGUAGE FROM. Sometimes people misspeak, but Yuki has always taken accountability and apologised if he has and if he caused harm. Martin Brundle did not get nearly as much backlash from the media when he misspoke and called an Asian driver a slur while commentating. He also never apologised for it.

Alex, one of the four Brits on the grid but who drives under the Thai flag, has said that the commentators only call him British born when he does well. He was completely excluded from the Silverstone publicity about the home crowd heroes, whereas George, Lewis & Lando were heralded, not only on race weekend, but for weeks leading up to it.

Alex's statement also reminded me of this Richard Harris quote, "When I'm in trouble, I'm an Irishman. When I turn in a good performance, I'm an Englishman." Genuinely, if I took a shot every time a British organisation/person claimed a talented Irish person was actually a Brit, I'd have died from alcohol poisoning years ago.

Hell, I see George wearing the poppy pin this weekend in the lead up to remembrance Sunday. Do you know the amount of shit James McClean gets every year because he refuses to wear one? And he has very valid reasons for choosing not to wear it, yet he's torn to shreds every year by not only random people on the Internet or on the streets but by commentators and the media too.

Because of how this sport became mainstream and because no one challenged Bernie Eccleston's monopoly on broadcasting rights back in the day (people were given the opportunity to buy a share of the broadcasting rights; the idiots said no), this sport has prioritised the British voice/perspective for decades. I know the other broadcasts are just as biased for their home team/drivers, but the British one is the biggest one, as it's the main broadcast for better and more often for the worst. It's the broadcast with the most reach and influence. Their bias has to be challenged eventually if this sport ever hopes to properly expand and grow. The British bias is so difficult to miss once you start noticing it.

[invye]

We are interrupting our regularly scheduled program to bring you a snippet of a potential ZoSan undercover as a married couple fic:

(Timeline wise shoehorned in sometime shortly after the timeskip, before the Strawhats make it back into the news big time.)

(People need saving from a exclusive circle of nobility, but most of the Stawhats have already been seen around the island, so the lot ends up on Zoro and Sanji to try get in posing as a freshly married couple on their honeymoon to try get more information.)

[after coming up with the plan and Zoro and Sanji hesitantly agreeing]

Robin: "You seem a little stressed, Cook-san."

Sanji, chain-smoking his third cigarette: "I'm fine, I'll do this… I just… I don't like lying about something as significant as marriage, alright? I know it's stupid, but that's just how I am."

Luffy, perking up from where one might have thought he wasn't paying attention at all: "Oi, Sanji, promise to protect Zoro?"

Sanji, puffing out smoke: "Obviously, the Marimo would get lost within all of two seconds without me having his back."

Luffy: "Good! Now, Zoro--!"

Zoro, already rising to the bait: "Oi, if anyone is protecting anyone, I'll be guarding your lanky ass, shit cook!"

Luffy, laughing: "Alright, then as the captain of this ship I hereby pronounce you married!"

Zoro:

Sanji:

Robin: "Oh my, congratulations!"

Brook: bursts into song

Luffy, grinning at Sanji: "See, now it's not a lie anymore, so you don't have to feel bad about calling Zoro your husband."

Zoro: "LUFFY!!! YOU CAN'T JUST--"

Sanji: wordlessly walks off to get ready for the mission

Usopp: "Wait, wait!" runs after Sanji, grabbing his wrist

Sanji: stares

Usopp, sweating nervously: "Need your ring size…"

Sanji: staring intensifies

Usopp, scurrying off as quickly as humanly possible: "Wedding gift!"

Luffy, in the distance, still being yelled at by Zoro: "Too bad we don't have time to celebrate, I really want some wedding cake… :("

[liriostigre]

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Lady Lilith

[rustedleopard]

Chujin's opinion of Starlo is that he is an immature loudmouth who only grew physically beyond middle/high school. He's a reckless moron that has no regard for the fact that he is poisoning the minds of monsterkind with his admiration for human culture. He thinks that Starlo's desire to bring a slice of the Underground is a waste of time and that if Starlo REALLY wanted to help monsterkind's situation, he'd try to figure out methods to escape the Underground instead of finding escapism in a pale imitation of the Surface. He is unable to conceive why Starlo even likes humans except out of some twisted, Stockholm Syndrome-esque fawning over monsterkinds' captors.

(Deep deep deep deep deep down, Chujin knows that Starlo is a kind person who doesn't have bad intentions. And, he can begrudgingly admit that if the Wild East prevents some monsters from falling into despair, (which is a death sentence for a monster,) then it does some good. But you'd basically have to dislocate his shoulder from twisting his arm so hard if you want Chujin to admit this.)

Starlo's opinion of Chujin is that he is some above-it-all asshole. He insists that he remained civil and respectful of Chujin ever since Chujin and Ceroba started dating and he started to get tangentially involved in Starlo's life, yet all Chujin's done is scoff at him for following his dreams. Chujin must think he's soooooooo great being some smarty-pants scientist instead of a nobody farmer/sheriff like he is and that's why he looks down on Starlo, what a snob! And as for Chujin's belief that all humans are evil? Greatly exaggerated! If humans were such wicked things, why would the westerns they make show such relatable concepts like justice and freedom and how cool revolvers are? Starlo's just trying to inject some fun into the Underground and distract everyone from how dire things are getting and Chujin has a massive stick up his ass about it.

(Deep deep deep deep deep down, Starlo knows that Chujin is a kind person who only wants the best for everyone. Chujin is beloved by Ceroba and the Sunnyside family and other residents of the Underground for a reason. The fact that he's such an admirable person drives him a bit nuts, because Starlo knows that he would never be able to measure up to him. It's no wonder that Ceroba fell for him so quickly. How could he ever compare? And as for Chujin's opinion on humans? While he strongly disagrees with Chujin's outright hatred, he does recognize that some humans can be dangerous.)

I would say that Chujin and Starlo would bitch at each other like two Southern belles backhand complimenting each other, except I feel like Starlo lacks the subtlety to be able to dish out those sorts of insults, let alone pick up on them. Instead, they'd try to be silent in each other's presence out of respect for Ceroba. It's a........... very tense silence, to say the least....

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 242

   He looks the same as he had that fateful day, a storm raging around him and risking sending the ship down into the abyss. Hair whipping in the wind as the sky roars its deadly challenge echoed by the beasts they all sought to bring down those centuries ago. 

   It looks just as human as they- that is to say not at all, not anymore. A body twisted, sand and lightning melding into a molten sea ever-expanding. Its eyes as gold as the treasure it guards, brilliant blues and greens dancing across bodies in sigils unknown. 

   It looks exactly as it did that time ago, smile dancing on its lips as the sky opened up in torrents, like blood gushing from a wound. “You’re free to go,” it says, in words they understand and words they don’t. “You don’t have to stay here any longer.” 

   “Where will we go?” They ask, so very tired of this eternal battle, of being trapped in crashing waves and storms of water and sand. Being tossed one way and the other, never able to go home, for home was gone long ago. 

   It looks up, their own gaze following, the ship crashing through the dredges of a storm they had thought eternal. And for the first time in eternities, they see them. The stars. Dancing and dripping from a serpentine form that cradles the Sun and Moon, smiling down to the beast and them alike. 

   And so, they take from the seas, and take to the stars instead. 

[shit-people-probably-didnt-say]

Apparently you cant politely call someone an idiot anymore 🙄

[ardentpoop]

you know.

[sinofwriting]

Satiated - Charles Leclerc (Dark Fic)

Words: 1,748 Summary: Charles wins Monza for the second time. (part of Claiming A Wife - Charles verse) Note(s): NSFW, DARK fic, the first part is dark, so inherently this part is as well. And if you haven’t read that part, please go read it. Context is somewhat needed.

Part One | Masterlist | Support Me! 

She clutches at Arthur’s arm as the final ten laps begin, Oscar Piastri gaining time, and the murmurs in the garage are loud. “C’mon Charles.” Arthur murmurs, his eyes glued to the timing screen unable to pull them away to watch the actual race.

She presses a little closer to him, giving her brother-in-law what little comfort she can. “He’s got this. This is his race to win now.”

He nods, but he still looks at the timing, unable to even blink and she can’t blame him. Her own eyes go between the race, the timing, and Charles’ onboard unable to blink as well.

The garage erupts into cheers as Charles crosses the line for the final lap, people starting to move around and out of the garage and Arthur is wrapping an arm around her urging her out of the garage and to parc fermé and she easily goes.

She had thought Charles otherworldly when he won Monaco, despite her fears overpowering it. But as she watches him get out of the car standing on it, and hearing all the Italian fans going crazy, seeing the flares, the fans starting to spill out, feeling the absolute joy radiating from Ferrari, she can’t help but liken Charles to a god.

The team grows louder when Charles throws himself into them. They all make sure to touch him and he does so back. He comes over to where her and Arthur are, pressing close to them, gripping her hand for a second as his other ruffles Arthur’s hair before continuing to touch the team members around him.

She watches with shiny eyes as he takes off his helmet and everything, setting it down before wandering over to the car. Sitting on it as a photo of him and a few other Ferrari members are taken. And then he’s walking back over to her.

Team members clap his back, reaching for him, touching him, Arthur is beaming at his brother, but Charles is only looking at her. It’s still a new feeling to not feel uneasy when he looks at her and she basks in it.

His hands come up to frame her face and he presses kisses to her face. “I won, mon ange.” He murmurs when his lips catch the corner of her mouth.

She smiles, head tipped back to look at him easily. “You won, Charles. You did so well. Now, hurry so we can celebrate.”

He presses a last kiss to the corner of her mouth before leaving.

—

They are supposed to be home, in Monaco. Charles had been firm with the team about it despite the unexpected win. He had gone to the celebratory dinner and they should already be in the car to leave, but if there is one thing she learned quickly after Charles claimed her, it is that he is unable to say no to her.

It had been easy when they came back to the hotel, the Italian fans cheering and screaming, Charles taking photos and signing things for them, to get Charles to agree to stay for just the night and that they could leave early in the morning.

All it had taken, and really she didn’t have to do so, was her sitting at the edge of the bed, a pout on her lips. And when Charles gently cooed, asking her what was wrong as his thumb rubbed at the soft skin under her eye, all she had to say was that she wanted to stay for the night and Charles was calling the front desk and messaging his team to let them know and his family that they wouldn’t be leaving with them.

Unsurprisingly everyone is more than okay with it, the hotel even offering to send up a bottle of champagne which Charles easily declines.

“You alright, mon ange?” He asks, thumbing moving to trace over her cheekbone. “You always like to leave soon.”

She nods, turning her face to press a kiss to the bare inside skin of Charles’ wrist. “I’m okay.”

His eyes are wide as he looks down at her, his chest still, and then he’s sinking down to his knees, pressing himself between her legs, his hand dropping and leaving a burning trail down her arm. “Mon ange.” His voice sounds pained.

Her hands cup his face, fingers gentle as they dance over it and his eyes flutter shut, breath hitching. “You did so well, Charles. So amazing.”

Nerves are gripping her, she feels shaky but isn’t, her breathing a little fast and before she can talk herself out of it, she bends and presses their lips together for the first time.

He’s still underneath her hands and lips and all she can hear is her own heartbeat, her confidence begins to flatter and Charles comes alive under her. A broken sound leaving his lips before he’s fervently kissing her back. Where her kiss had been a mixture of nerves and passion, his is nothing but passion. His hands grabbing at her waist, his tongue easily slipping its way into her mouth when she moans.

They continue to kiss but soon her neck and back ache from being bent over and she tries to urge him upwards. She wants to continue to kiss him. To lay back and feel his lips on hers, his body on top of hers, his body between her legs pressing them together, but he doesn’t move an inch.

“Charles,” She breathes, when he finally stops kissing her though, their lips still brushing however when she speaks.

“Lay back, mon ange.” He lightly squeezes her waist and then his hands are moving downwards to her thighs. “I want to kiss you somewhere else now.”

Her fingers grip at the duvet, something just short of a whimper escaping from her. Her body follows his wants, sinking down into the bed.

“That’s it, <i>mon ange</i>.”

A shaky breath leaves her and she can feel his lips against her skin, following the path of new exposed skin that her dress shows him as he pulls it up.

She’s about to remind him that it zips when she feels his breath against the waistband of her panties and then his lips. It makes her gasp, blood rushing to her face. “Charles.”

“Shh,” he pets her thigh.

She sucks in a breath as she feels his fingers curl around her underwear, her hips lifting as he takes them off of her. It releases into a moan when he presses his mouth against her with a moan of his own.

One of his hands grips her hip while the other pulls at her left thigh, spreading her more open for him. His tongue swirls around her clit and her fingers ache as they pull at the duvet. His name, as a protest or an ask for more, is on her tongue but unable to push past her lips. She feels like she can barely breathe as he plays with her clit, trying to figure out what she likes best, and when he does, he doesn’t relent.

One of her hands leaves the bed, fingers tangling in his hair, trying to pull him away as her thighs try to press together, but it just encourages him, makes him groan, the vibrations in turn making her cry out. He continues to pleasure her until finally she falls apart for him.

“Such a good girl for me.” He murmurs, lips leaving a slight wet kiss to her thigh as she catches her breath.

“Charles, please.”

“I know.” He soothes. “I just need,” he doesn’t finish his sentence, instead dipping his head and her eyes roll back as she feels the press of his tongue against her hole. He moans against her and her thighs clench. “So good, mon ange.” And she whines feeling sensitive but ready for him to start again if he decides to.

His right hand leaves her thigh, moving upward and his left follows it. She doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until the heat of him is hovering over her, his lips dancing across the length of her neck until finally he’s kissing her again.

It’s slow and sweet, but now that she doesn’t have the distraction of his face between her thighs, she remembers what exactly she wanted. “Charles,” she breathes when he pulls away, letting them both catch their breath.

His green eyes are wide, lips swollen and cheeks flushed. He looks both starved and satiated.

“I want something.”

“Anything.”

Her eyes fall downward at the quick response, still somewhat unused to getting anything and everything she wanted. Her fingers tug at the shirt he’s wearing, a frown forming as she realizes he’s still wearing it. Her lips part, ready to ask for it off, but he’s already standing and pulling it over his head.

He goes to stand in between her legs, ready, eager, to kiss her again, hear what she wants, but she stops him, foot pressing against his toned stomach. “Pants and underwear too, please.” His mouth shuts with a quiet click, eyes widening, but he nods, stepping back.

His eyes stay glued to her as he begins to unbuckle his belt and she takes advantage of it. The nice lace panties are gone, but the matching bra isn’t.

Finding the zipper of the dress, she takes the small thing carefully between her two fingers and pulls, sitting up on her knees as she does so. She debates getting up and wiggling out of it standing before saying fuck it, either way she’d have to wiggle out of it, she might as well stay on the bed to do so. She’s pleasantly surprised when the dress comes off easily over her head, only a slight pause due to Charles having bunched it up so much.

She’s so pleased with how easy it came off, she nearly misses the sound of a belt dropping to the floor and then the quick follow up of clothes as well.

“Mon ange.” Charles breathes.

Her heart beats a little faster, watching as his fist clench, feet shuffling, obviously wanting closer. She pokes her bottom lip, Charles’ eyes dropping it to, his tongue darting out to swipe over his own. “I never said what I wanted.”

“Anything.” He repeats.

The pout is replaced by a smile as she lays back down and spreads her legs wide enough for him to go between and he doesn’t need her to tell him what to do next.

[tritoch]

wild to me to see posts like "wow everything in the tempest is named after shakespeare...emet you melodramatic bitch you sure loved theater". because the prospero-emet thing gets played up so hard in the english script and you can carry it so far!

like prospero is an asshole magician who, after being deposed by his brother as duke of milan, settles himself and his daughter on a remote island, enslaves the local spirits using his magic, and bitterly plots to reclaim his past glories. he rules through violence and deceit, and only survives and is reconciled when his plots reach their fruition and his brother is taken to his remote island and plots ensue and everyone decides he was totally right all along and they were huge dicks to him and they're sooooo sorry and he gets to go back and be duke again wow! and it's okay because he's like "i was only doing mean magic to get my rightful spot back and now i'm giving it up because magic is evil. :)"

the tempest is what emet wants his life to be. prospero is not a villain in the text of the tempest. he is barely treated as antagonistic by the text and framing of the play itself. all his abuses, his neglect and control of his daughter, his enslavement of caliban and ariel (local spirits/monsters/people of the island), his deception and plots against his brother, his abuse of magical powers (not awesome, from the pov of the contemporary audience), all that ultimately gets swept aside in the rightness of his return to milan and the warm feeling of the world being set to rights. prospero can't undo the years he spent on the island but they are ultimately a blip in his life before he returns to the rightful state of affairs. his abuse and enslavement of caliban, easily the worst thing he does in the play, is totally set aside when caliban goes "wow now i see how truly benevolent my master is. i love him and see the ways of christian good and i'm so, so appreciative he chose not to kill or beat me even though he totally could have and would have been in the right. he's so just and intelligent." everyone loves and forgives him and they all agree both his management of the island and his ultimate return are so good and so wise and so right.

emet comparing himself to the tempest (or being compared to it, depending on how you want to read the diegetic status of the place names) is absolute wishcasting. it is an attempt to manifest the happy ending he will never, ever get because his sins cannot and would not be forgiven in the way he wants. he wants to imagine himself as the righteous returned duke whose crimes, including the enslavement, abuse, and exploitation of those he saw as his rightful inferiors, were totally worth it, i promise. and if emet is prospero, the warrior of light is his caliban.

[magpod-confessions]

Its crazy how everyone always tryna draw /stylish/ versions of the characters (according to fandom people which makes it. Questionable in actual style) but always sleep on the one character that is described as being stylish and havin cool hair bc shes black and a woman. How come we got the same or more fanarts of Mike Crew when he like shows up in one episode and then gets immediately knocked dead than Anabelle who appears multiple times is a mysterious presence loomin over the story and plays a huge role on like. The whole closure of the entire podcast. Like im sure everyone hates to hear it and im callin myself out w this too cuz i havent done much fanart of her (to be fair i havent done enough fanart in general bc of chronic artblock) but im calling racism, mysoginy and mysoginoir too bc everyone either ignores her or writtes her as a dominant agressive presence to antagonize in their jmart fics

Anon you are actually so so right holy crap

[columboscreens]

[michimiart-blog]

Greetings fellas, my first post like this and is the Furios

[deadmornings]

every time i see lick it up era photos i think of that post talking about how gene and paul look like vinnie and eric’s parents

[mylordshesacactus]

[weary sigh] Do y'all wanna see possibly the most Myself TM, self-indulgent-nonsense thing I will perhaps ever write?

Literally this is more self-indulgent nonsense than the Ihz fic, and some desperate small creature is literally 7k of my Warcraft OC.

Anyway so I took the basic structure of Lady of Shalott and wrote an in-universe folk song about my fucking. mount and blade main. her name is Karik, she iconically is a horse archer who fights with a light lance, she has never raided a village or caravan and has on multiple occasions risked her life to drive third-party raids away from enemy villages.

The resulting poem is almost embarrassingly sincere but I am, unfortunately, genuinely proud of it.

Poetic structure, and then you'll also want the Loreena McKennit arrangement for the tune because it's phenomenal. (No thematic connection at all, to be clear, just the structure as a writing challenge to myself.)

[orphiclovers]

yjh getting to call hsy 'mommy' during sex would fix him i'm so serious