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twobluejeans · 1 month ago

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Vogue Engagement Interview

charles leclerc x fiancé!reader

summary: In which y/n and charles invite vogue into their monaco home

ally’s radio 📻: hello my lovelies, its been a while… this is eventually gonna be apart a series I’m working on but for now its a standalone. if you guys enjoy it, send in request for other blurbs🤍

EXCLUSIVE: Y/n L/n & Charles Leclerc’s Love Story—A Home, A Forever, A Dream.

A Drive into Luxury

Monaco’s streets glisten in the early afternoon light, the air thick with the scent of sea salt and citrus. The road leading up to Y/N L/N and Charles Leclerc’s home is lined with palm trees, their shadows swaying gently over the sleek pavement. As I pull into their driveway, I take a moment to absorb the scene before me—an array of luxury cars neatly parked in front of the house, each a testament to Charles’ love for speed and precision. A cherry-red Ferrari, unmistakably his, sits beside a blacked-out Mercedes G-Wagon, which I suspect belongs to Y/N. Beside them, a vintage Porsche—cream-colored, classic, and timeless, much like the couple themselves.

The house before me is nothing short of breathtaking. White stone, modern yet inviting, with floor-to-ceiling windows that reflect the sapphire hues of the Mediterranean behind it. It’s grand, certainly, but not in a way that feels cold or impersonal. Even from the outside, the home exudes warmth—just like the woman who greets me at the door.

A Warm Welcome

Y/N L/N stands in the doorway, barefoot, wearing a soft cashmere sweater in the perfect shade of off-white and a pair of delicate gold hoop earrings that catch the sunlight. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, a few strands framing her face. She’s effortlessly beautiful, yet it’s not just her appearance that captivates—it’s the way she carries herself, the way her smile reaches her eyes, the way she radiates an easy, natural warmth.

"Hi! You must be Ally, it’s so nice to meet you," she says, her voice smooth and welcoming. She extends her hand, and as we shake, I can’t help but notice the sparkling engagement ring on her finger—the ring that has sent the world into a frenzy.

She gestures for me to step inside, the scent of fresh peonies and something warm—vanilla, perhaps—filling the air. The entryway is spacious but cozy, with soft lighting, neutral tones, and delicate personal touches. A candle flickers on a marble side table, and a framed photo of her and Charles, mid-laughter, sits beside it.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, wine—it's never too early for wine in Monaco," she jokes, leading me further inside.

I opt for a coffee, and she nods, already making her way toward the open kitchen, which is a stunning combination of modern design and lived-in comfort. Copper pans hang above the marble island, and a basket of freshly baked croissants sits on the counter. She moves effortlessly, making me feel less like an interviewer and more like an old friend.

A Glimpse Into Their Home

Before we settle in, Y/N insists on giving me a small tour. We move through the house at a leisurely pace, and she speaks about their home with genuine affection.

"Charles and I wanted something that felt like us—elegant but not over-the-top. A place where we could truly unwind. Where we could have friends over, but also where we could just… be."

The living room is a perfect reflection of that sentiment. A grand yet inviting space, with a massive cream-colored sectional adorned with soft blankets and an array of books scattered across the coffee table. The glass doors open onto a terrace overlooking the sea, the gentle sound of waves lapping in the distance.

The warmth of their home isn’t just in the décor—it’s in the small, intimate details. A racing helmet casually placed on a shelf, a half-finished painting leaning against the wall, a dog bed tucked in the corner.

And speaking of their dog—Leo, a mini golden dachshund, comes trotting into the room, tail wagging furiously. He greets me as if we’ve known each other forever, before curling up at Y/N’s feet.

"He’s a menace,"she laughs, scratching behind his ears. "But we adore him."

She leads me back to the living room, where we settle onto the plush sofa. There’s still no sign of Charles, but Y/N doesn’t seem concerned. Instead, she leans back, taking a slow sip of her coffee, and I take the opportunity to shift the conversation toward her latest project.

Heartache & Healing: The Story Behind the Album

"Your new album has been described as a journey through heartbreak and finding love again," I begin. "Can you tell us what inspired it?"

Y/N exhales softly, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup.

"It was… personal," she admits. "My last relationship was—well, it wasn’t healthy. It was a cycle of highs and lows, of leaving and coming back when I knew I shouldn’t. I think a lot of people have been in relationships like that, where you convince yourself things will change. But eventually, I realized I had to leave, and that’s when everything started to shift for me."

"There’s a track on the album—number 16—simply titled ‘Charles Leclerc.’

She smiles, a different kind of light in her eyes now. "It wasn’t planned," she says. "We were finishing up the album, and I was in the studio one night, just reflecting. I started humming this melody, and the words just… came out. It was a love note, really. Just a simple way of capturing what he means to me."

Before I can ask more, the front door swings open, and in walks Charles Leclerc, his presence filling the space effortlessly. Dressed in a fitted navy sweater and tailored trousers, he carries two grocery bags in one hand and, in the other, a bouquet so large it nearly obscures his face.

"Mon amour, I got your favorite pastries," he announces, setting the bags down before walking over to Y/N and pressing a lingering kiss to her temple.

She takes the flowers with a soft laugh. "You didn’t have to do that."

"I always have to do that," he counters, before turning to me with an easy grin. "Welcome to our home. I hope Y/N hasn’t told you too many embarrassing stories about me yet."

The Proposal: A Moment Meant to Last Forever

As Charles settles in beside Y/N, I ask him about the proposal—one of the most talked-about moments of the year.

"You chose Monaco, a rooftop, and—surprise—Lando Norris as the secret photographer?" I tease.

Charles chuckles, shaking his head. "I needed someone to capture the moment, and Lando has a good eye for that kind of thing. But really, I wanted it to be perfect. Y/N deserves nothing less."

"What made you choose that moment to propose?"

His gaze softens as he turns toward Y/N.

"A few months ago, we did a perfume campaign together. The concept was this idealized life—a home, a family, this perfect love story. And I remember looking at her during the shoot, holding this little boy’s hand, and I thought… I don’t want this to be pretend. I want it to be real. I want to come home to her, to have Sunday mornings and family dinners and late-night talks about absolutely nothing. I wanted it all—with her. And once I knew that, there was no reason to wait."

Y/N squeezes his hand, her eyes glistening.

"And now you have it," I say, smiling.

Charles nods. "Now I have everything."

An Outpouring of Love—And Flowers

As soon as the engagement was announced, Y/N and Charles were flooded with well-wishes, not just from fans, but from some of the most iconic names in Hollywood, music, and sports. Their Monaco home was quickly transformed into something of a botanical wonderland.

Beyoncé sent an extravagant arrangement of white orchids and gardenias, with a handwritten note that read, "Wishing you both a love as timeless as your artistry. Love always, B."

Pedro Pascal had red and yellow tulips delivered with a note that simply said, "Love wins. Cheers to you both."

Chris Evans sent a classic bouquet of red roses, playfully signing off, "Now, don’t let him drive too fast, okay?"

Theo James and Aubrey Plaza, her White Lotus co-stars, gifted wildflowers and eucalyptus, with a note from Aubrey that read, "If he ever pisses you off, just remember… we know where to find him."

Jacob Elordi, her Priscilla co-star, sent Australian natives—banksias and proteas, writing, "A queen deserves flowers fit for a queen."

Zendaya and Tom Holland surprised her with an entire indoor citrus tree, symbolizing growth and prosperity.

Harry Styles had peonies and hydrangeas delivered, with a simple yet heartfelt, "Love to you both."

And, of course, Max Verstappen, Charles’ friend and fellow F1 driver, sent sunflowers with a note that read, "Because Charles is going to need something bright to look at when he gets overtaken."

Fast Laps & Slow Mornings

"Charles, how do you balance racing at such an intense level while also making time for your personal life?"

"It’s not easy," he admits. "F1 is demanding, and there are weeks where I barely see home. But Y/N understands that. She’s been there for me through it all—whether it’s waking up at 4 AM to watch a race or flying across the world just to spend a day together. And when I do get time off, I make sure it’s meaningful. Like today—I picked up her favorite pastries, and we’re going to spend the rest of the afternoon doing absolutely nothing together. Watching Abbot Elementary, her favorite show."

Y/N smiles. "The perfect day."

An Unexpected Delivery

As the conversation flows effortlessly between Y/N and Charles, our interview is briefly interrupted by the sound of the doorbell echoing through their Monaco home.

Y/N furrows her brows, exchanging a glance with Charles before getting up.

"I wasn’t expecting anything today," she murmurs, padding barefoot toward the door.

A few moments later, she returns, holding an unmistakably elegant black velvet box with gold detailing—and a letter.

She places it on the coffee table, her fingers hovering over the envelope before she lets out a small laugh. "This is… unexpected."

Charles, sipping his espresso, raises an eyebrow. "Who’s it from?"

Y/N flips the envelope over, and for the first time during our interview, she looks genuinely stunned.

"It’s from Zayn."

There’s a pause. A noticeable one. Zayn Malik—her first public boyfriend, her first real love. Not the other relationship she references in her album, but the one that introduced her to the world of high-profile romance. They had dated years ago, young and in love, their breakup amicable, though heavily scrutinized by the media.

"Open it," Charles encourages, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. There’s no jealousy, only curiosity.

She carefully unfolds the letter, her eyes scanning the words before she reads them aloud.

“Y/N,

Love changes, but real love never fades. It evolves, it grows, it finds its way into different forms. You taught me that.

I’m so damn happy for you. Seeing you glow the way you do now—it’s exactly what you deserve. You’ve always deserved a love like this.

No matter where life takes us, I’ll always be rooting for you.

Wishing you and Charles a lifetime of happiness.

-Z”

Silence lingers for a moment before Y/N exhales softly, a small, touched smile on her lips.

"That was really sweet," she says, setting the letter down carefully.

Charles reaches for her hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "You really do have the whole world rooting for you, don’t you?"

Y/N chuckles, shaking her head. "I guess so."

She finally lifts the lid of the black velvet box, revealing a delicate gold charm bracelet—elegant, understated, and timeless. Each charm tells a story: a music note for her career, a tiny Monaco Grand Prix trophy for Charles, a small vintage microphone, and a crescent moon, a nod to the nickname Zayn used to call her in their younger years.

"Wow," she murmurs, gently running her fingers over the charms.

"You going to keep it?" I ask.

Y/N glances at Charles, who simply shrugs. "It’s a memory," he says easily. "And memories deserve their place."

She smiles at him, then fastens the bracelet around her wrist.

"Yeah," she says, her voice soft but certain. "I think I will."

Looking Ahead

As the sun dips lower in the sky, casting golden light through their home, I ask them both the final question.

"What’s next?"

Y/N glances at Charles. "Marriage. Love. Life."

Charles nods. "And maybe a few more interludes."

Y/N laughs, squeezing his hand. "Maybe."

And with that, it’s clear—their love story is only just beginning.

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x you #f1 imagine #f1 wags #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fic #formula 1 #cl16 #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x female reader

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hero-israel · 3 months ago

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This is pseudoscience where it isn’t actively anti-science.

The pines planted in Israel are Aleppo pines, which are indigenous and have been recorded by observers for literally millennia. Far from “devastating” native oaks and carobs and whatever, Israel planted tons of those varieties too. And there can be no discussion of the well-being of Israeli forests without noting that Palestinian militants are highly proficient at arson and have practically made mountainous tire-fires their trademark.

As for the idea that the Zionists were “trying to create European-style forests” - the implication that the local environment was “normal” before they “changed” it is entirely a social construct reeking of unexamined privilege. The Roman Empire massively deforested Israel along with the rest of the Mediterranean. Our popular concept of the Middle East as a land of desert and scrubland is artificial, but comes naturally to people who think the world began in like 1700.

The Palestinian mountain gazelle is indeed endangered in Israel, and some of their populations are jeopardized by habitat and genetic fragmentation caused by the West Bank barriers. However, the largest and most stable population of the species is found in the Golan Heights, where they roam freely without such barriers and have enjoyed a significant rebound in numbers now that they are no longer subject to hunting from Syria. More importantly, the Palestinian mountain gazelle has already been wiped out in Egypt, and also in Syria and Jordan - perhaps some invisible Mossad agents went on safari? The species was on the brink of extinction in Turkey, until it was quite accidentally saved when the Turkish military set up a no-man’s-land on the border with Syria in response to its civil war.

It’s also worth noting that the first post in that Twitter thread (not screencapped onto the Tumblr post, hmm...) was Heron calling for BDS. When Israel really is the only country in that region where forest cover is growing and where the mountain gazelles have any chance at survival, uh, why should we overthrow the government, again? That would help the environment how, precisely? The Kai Herons of the world would call that “greenwashing,” because they don’t actually give a shit about the environment, they just misappropriate journal-jargon to mask how ridiculous and unprincipled their accusations are.

Last and least, the concept that “Palestinian liberation is a climate issue” is just a perfect crystallization, French waiter palm-kiss, of how lefty activists try to run in every direction at once and get nowhere. Climate protection has failed because it requires the entire world to unfuck foundational problems in our economic, technological, and political lives - but Palestinian liberation is still a matter of a signature and a handshake, two parties looking at made-up lines on a very small map. For white European activists to insist that Palestinians may only make progress if we first make progress on climate change just shows how they only see Palestinians as tools and symbols and not as people.

CODA:

This is a case of me being ABSOLUTELY fucking petty enough to reconstruct and restart a post after someone blocked me and prevented reblogs of the original.

For more on the pseudoscience and anti-environmentalism of Palestine activists see lots of links here. For more on the actual environmental history and diversity of the region, see the tags.

#israeli wildlife #wildlife of israel

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theballadofharkness · 8 days ago

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Whisky and Wine: Part 6

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Claire Debella x fem!reader

Summary: The last thing you expected when you came home from your publishers to your older partner Claire’s home was an invitation to her friend’s, Billionaire Miles Bron, private luxury yacht for the weekend. The problem? Claire had been very careful to keep her fellow disrupters away from you, terrified they would ruin yet another aspect of her life. But nobody says no to Miles, so you find yourself surrounded by Claire’s ‘inner circle’.

Word Count: 10.4K

Warnings: Non explicit smut, and sexual harassment (non explicit: it is a hand on the thigh but it does warrant a warning I think). So as always minors DNI xo

A/N: apologises this took so long! Work and life has been hectic but I should be back to updating more regularly and for those who enjoy my Agatha works, I have quite a few things to publish soon xo 💜🪻

The morning air is already thick with heat, the Mediterranean sun beating down mercilessly on the yacht's upper deck. The brunch plates have been cleared, fresh drinks poured, and now the group is settling, finding their places in the slow, indulgent rhythm of the day.

Duke, unsurprisingly, has stripped down to his swim trunks and is doing laps in the pool, his massive frame cutting through the water with precise, practiced strokes. Every time he reaches the edge, he stops for just a second to glance over at the side of the deck where his gun sits, gleaming in the sun, like he can’t stand the idea of being too far away from it. Like it’s an extension of himself, something he needs within reach to feel whole.

Peg is hunched over her laptop, her bucket hat pulled low, shielding her face from the sun as she furiously types away, looking like a stark contrast to the scene around her. Her legs are pulled up onto the sunbed, bare knees pressed together, her fingers flying across the keyboard with stressed efficiency.

Birdie, on the other hand, is a fucking spectacle.

Living up to her namesake, she is absolutely peacocking, standing near a sun lounger, posing like she’s waiting for someone to paint her rather than just exist in the space. She’s draped in a swimsuit so needlessly complicated that it looks more like an avant-garde fashion piece than something meant for swimming. Her hair is perfectly styled, makeup flawless despite the heat, and she’s decked out in more jewelry than necessary- chunky gold bangles stacked up her arms, oversized hoops catching the light, rings weighing down her fingers. And, of course, she’s in heels.

High heels by a pool? You try not to think too hard about it.

Lionel is sprawled out on a lounger, sunglasses perched on his face, his arms crossed over his chest. His posture is relaxed, but the stress radiates off of him, his fingers twitching slightly, like he needs something to do, something to focus on. You can practically hear his brain working overtime, even though he’s technically supposed to be relaxing.

And then there’s Whisky.

She’s walking across the deck with slow, deliberate movements, every step purposeful, every inch of her oozing that lazy, confident sex appeal that makes it clear she knows exactly how she looks.

She makes her way over to Miles, who has picked up an acoustic guitar of all things, strumming lazily, looking insufferably pleased with himself. The image of it is enough to make your skin crawl: Miles Bron, billionaire, tech “genius,” barefoot on the deck of his fucking yacht, playing guitar like he’s some soulful artist just waiting to be discovered.

Whisky drapes herself over the back of the couch he’s perched on, her fingers trailing over his shoulders as he plays, and you tear your eyes away before you have to see him eat up the attention.

Instead, you focus on Claire.

You find her sitting stiffly beside you, eyes locked onto something across the deck, a very specific look settling over her features, the slight furrow of her brows, the way her lips press together, the subtle way her fingers twitch against her knee.

You follow her gaze and… oh, of course, she’s staring at Peg’s laptop.

You frown. “Oh, no. No way,” you say immediately, turning to face her fully, voice firm.

Claire blinks, like she wasn’t aware she’d been caught, turning her attention back to you. “What?” she asks, feigning innocence.

You narrow your eyes. “Baby.”

She huffs, shifting slightly, but doesn’t deny it. “I was just thinking I could-”

“No.”

“Just a few-”

“No, baby. No.” You shift onto your knees, leaning in closer, placing both hands on her cheeks dramatically. “You promised. No work this weekend.”

She sighs, her hands coming to rest on your thighs as she looks up at you, something playful tugging at her lips.

“I know, but-”

You pout.

Claire pauses.

You know what you’re doing, you know she hates when you pout, that it wrecks her every time.

“I never get this much time with you away from your laptop at home,” you continue, voice soft, a little wounded, pushing just enough to make her feel it.

She exhales sharply, her grip tightening on your thighs, like she wants to argue, wants to say just one email, just one quick check-in, but she can’t. Because she knows you’re right. And you know she hates disappointing you.

So she groans, tilting her head back dramatically. “Fine,” she relents. “No work.”

You beam, kissing her quickly. “That’s my girl.”

She exhales through her nose, shaking her head as she pulls you back into her lap, her arms wrapping around you completely, like she’s trying to prove she’s really, fully present with you.

And for the first time all morning, you feel like you can actually relax.

The sun glints off Birdie’s oversized sunglasses as she pushes them down her nose, appraising you and Claire with a slow, deliberate sweep of her eyes. The expression on her face shifts almost instantly, first with mild intrigue, then thinly veiled irritation as her gaze lands on you.

It’s subtle, but you see it, that tiny, involuntary twitch of her lips, the way her brows tighten ever so slightly.

It’s your youth, your freshness. It bothers her. You’re effortlessly radiant, still glowing from the morning’s laziness, from Claire’s kisses, from the unbothered softness of being utterly wanted without having to ask for it.

And Birdie knows it.

But, of course, she doesn’t comment on you. No, you’re not the target here. She turns to Claire instead, sliding her sunglasses off completely, flashing a too-wide, saccharine smile.

“Oh, Claire,” she coos, voice dripping with manufactured sweetness, “you look so cute.”

You arch an eyebrow, shifting slightly in Claire’s lap to look at Birdie properly, but Claire doesn’t even hesitate, she just deadpans right back at her and gives her the finger.

Birdie gasps, clutching her chest dramatically. “God, rude.”

You smirk, a little proud, but then a better idea hits you.

Birdie thinks she can just throw little jabs and keep moving, that her beauty, her legendary status, means she never has to sit in that discomfort herself. Maybe it’s time she gets a taste of her own medicine. You shift, tilting your head just so, letting your lips curl into something sweet, saccharine, but pointed.

“Oh, doesn’t she?” you say, voice light, airing on thoughtful, as you turn to Claire instead.

You drag your fingers along Claire’s shoulder, watching her eyes slightly darken at the touch, and then smile as you continue:

“Always so elegant and sexy,” you say, voice slipping into something deliberate, something knowing, “she doesn’t even have to try.”

You feel Claire react, the subtle shift of her muscles, the way her hands tighten just slightly around your waist.

Birdie’s expression hardens. It’s quick, the way her lips purse, the way her perfectly arched brows pull just a little, but you catch it. Not that she has time to say anything, because you keep going.

“Not that trying really hard is a bad thing, Birdie,” you add, still smiling, still so fucking sweet, “I mean, you’ve obviously spent hours on this, uh…” you gesture vaguely, taking in the chaotic swimsuit, the towering heels, the excessive accessories. “…ensemble.”

Claire chokes on a laugh.

Birdie’s jaw tightens.

Your smile widens, eyes glinting as you deliver the final blow. “You look cute, though,” you say easily. Then, after a beat, “Adorable, even.”

Birdie glares.

Claire loses it.

She actually snorts, a rare, genuine sound of amusement, before she hooks her arms around you, pulling you straight into her lap on the sun lounger.

You laugh as she presses a quick, gratified kiss against your temple, murmuring “Fucking love you” into your hair as you hand her the glass of white wine you had been holding.

You settle against her, draping yourself in her warmth, and let yourself relax.

Because here’s the thing, you never put other women down, you don’t believe in it. But Birdie Jay? Birdie needs to learn that messing with Claire means messing with you, and that’s a mistake she will always regret.

You sigh, fully melting into Claire’s arms, letting her warmth wrap around you as you rest against her chest. The midday sun is relentless, the heat seeping into your skin, making everything feel hazy, lazy, but Claire’s fingers, tracing soft, idle patterns up and down your bare back, keep you grounded. She smells like suntan lotion and white wine, and when you glance up at her, she’s already looking elsewhere, her sharp eyes locked onto Whisky.

Whisky, who is currently draped over Miles, her toned, bronzed legs curled over his lap, her manicured fingers trailing up and down his chest as she giggles at something he’s said.

It’s the fakest laugh you’ve ever heard.

Claire huffs softly.

You grin. “Oh, come on,” you murmur, just loud enough for her to hear. You tilt your head, resting your chin against her collarbone, eyes gleaming as you press closer. “It’s so obvious, right?”

Claire hums, still watching them, her fingers slowing as she absently traces the line of your spine. “I know,” she mutters, voice low with disbelief. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice before.”

You giggle. “You’ve been a little preoccupied, baby.”

She smirks at that, but her eyes stay on Whisky, her brows furrowing just slightly. “I just…” she exhales, shifting, adjusting you in her lap, her free hand reaching for her wine glass. “I wonder what she’s really getting out of this. I mean, what could possibly be worth having to act like Miles is desirable?”

You snort. “Not his billions?”

Claire scoffs, taking a sip of wine. “You couldn’t pay me enough.”

You bite your lip to stifle a laugh. “I think the second he pulled out his acoustic guitar, I’d lose it.”

Claire actually groans. “Jesus, don’t remind me of that. He thinks he’s fucking John Lennon.”

That sends you giggling, tucking your face into her shoulder as she shakes her head, lifting her glass again.

“God,” she mutters, “she must have the patience of a saint.”

You pull back, still grinning, and glance over at Duke, who is sitting at the edge of the pool, watching Whisky with open pride. His gun, because of course he brought it, rests beside him within arms reach, like being too far away from it would kill him.

Claire follows your gaze and sighs. “And Duke,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “I mean, I know he’s a meathead, but I’m still… God, I’m so disappointed in him.”

She tightens her hold on you slightly, shifting as she moves her wine glass to the table beside her. “I’d never pimp my partner out to get something. I don’t care what it is.”

You smirk, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, you sure?” you tease, tilting your head, your lips brushing against her jaw as you murmur, “You don’t wanna rent me out for Senate?”

Claire stills.

And then… she growls. It’s low, deep in her throat, as she immediately turns, shifting so quickly that you let out a surprised squeak. Her hands move fast, one gripping your waist, the other sliding down, fingers digging into your ass as she pulls you into her.

“Don’t even joke about that,” she mutters, voice dangerously low.

Then she kisses you. It’s not soft, it’s claiming. Possessive. Her fingers dig in, pressing you down hard against her, and you gasp, lips parting as she deepens the kiss.

“You’re mine,” she murmurs against your mouth, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Your head spins. You can’t help the breathy little moan you let out, or the way your fingers tangle in her hair, or how you immediately tilt your head to chase her lips when she pulls back, just slightly.

“I know, Mommy,” you whisper.

And fuck, her eyes go dark. She groans, kissing you again, slower this time, her hands smoothing up your back, her grip still firm but gentle, grounding herself in you, needing you close.

And honestly?

You love it.

The sun was relentless, pressing down on your skin in thick, golden waves. The day had barely begun, yet the air was already heavy, swollen with heat and tension that had nothing to do with the weather. You’d curled yourself into Claire’s side, letting her fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine, her touch grounding you, anchoring you to this moment.

“Claire.”

Lionel’s voice was quiet, almost careful.

You didn’t move immediately, still curled against Claire’s side, your lips brushing against the warm slope of her shoulder. But you felt the way her entire body tensed beneath you, the way the soft circling of her fingers stilled against your back, as if bracing herself.

You turned your head just enough to look at Lionel, sunglasses shielding his eyes, but his mouth was set in a firm line. His fingers tapped against the condensation on his glass.

“How are you feeling?”

The words might have seemed harmless to anyone else, a polite check-in after a night of drinking, a casual question between friends. But you weren’t just anyone else. You knew exactly what he meant. It had nothing to do with Claire’s hangover.

It had everything to do with Andi.

With the court case.

With the weight of what they’d agreed to do for Miles.

Even if you hadn’t been privy to all of the discussions, hadn’t been included in all the hushed, conspiratorial conversations that happened behind closed doors, you still knew. Because it was written all over Claire’s face. And Lionel’s.

They were the two most moral people in the group. The ones who should have been the first to walk away. The ones who, in any other scenario, wouldn’t have let themselves be backed into a corner like this. But instead, they were here. They were staying. They were testifying.

And you knew it was eating them alive.

The moment stretched between them, thick and suffocating. So you leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to Claire’s lips, trying to ease some of the tension gripping her body. You pulled back just slightly, brushing your thumb over her cheekbone.

She blinked, brows drawing together, concern creeping into her expression. You already knew what she was thinking. That maybe you felt pushed out. That maybe she wasn’t being a good enough partner to you, too caught up in her own shit to be fully present with you.

But you just gave her a small smile. “You and Lionel talk, baby.”

Claire’s frown deepened, searching your face, as if trying to make sure you really meant it.

You did.

You knew she needed to talk to someone about this. And Lionel was the only one who truly understood what she was going through.

She exhaled softly, her lips parting just slightly as she mouthed thank you before turning to Lionel.

You stood, stretching slightly, feeling the heat of the sun immediately settle against your skin.

You needed a drink. Something cold. Something that might help quiet the buzzing in your head, the unease curling in your stomach. As you walked toward the bar, you caught a glimpse of Claire and Lionel slipping into the infinity pool, the two of them drifting toward the far edge, the part where the water met the sky, where they could talk without worrying about being overheard.

You swallowed, jaw tightening. You hated this for her. Hated that she was carrying this. That she even had to make this choice. But you also knew she wouldn’t let you carry any of it for her. She was protecting you. Even if it hurt.

You reached the bar, stepping under the large umbrella and relishing the brief relief from the heat. The bartender glanced at you, wiping his hands on a towel before leaning forward slightly.

“What can I get you?”

You hesitated, considering. Something light. Something that wouldn’t add to the already growing nausea in your gut. “Just a pineapple juice, please.”

The bartender gave a short nod, turning to grab a glass when you felt it. A presence behind you. Too close. A hand on your waist that wasn’t Claire’s. Wrong.

Before your brain could fully register what was happening, you heard his voice, low, casual, friendly.

“Oh no, no, no,” Miles chuckled, his fingers pressing just slightly against the soft skin of your hip, too close to the knot of your bikini bottoms. “You have to try the Cuban Breeze. It’s so good. That was the drink that got us on the no-fly list at St. Barts.”

Your whole body locked up.

The heat of the sun suddenly felt suffocating.

Too hot. Too much.

You weren’t a stranger to touch. You liked being touched by Claire. By people you were comfortable with. People who had earned the right to put their hands on you.

But this?

Miles’ touch felt wrong.

It wasn’t overtly inappropriate, but it was just enough to set off every single alarm bell in your body.

Your heart started hammering, your stomach twisting as a sharp wave of unease rolled through you.

The urge to yank his hand off of you, to push him away, was immediate. But you hesitated, your mind racing. You knew exactly how dangerous Miles Bron was. You knew exactly what he was capable of. He could ruin Claire. Could ruin her campaign. Could ruin everything she had spent her entire career working toward.

And after last night, after the veiled threats and the barely concealed gloating, you knew better than to put a target on your back.

So you forced yourself to stay still.

You forced yourself to swallow the nausea rising in your throat, to keep your voice steady as you reached for the drink he was offering.

You barely looked at him.

Didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t give him anything.

Just took the glass, gripped it tight, and stepped away from his orbit, you from him. Your entire body felt cold, even as the sun blazed down on you. You needed to get back to Claire.

Now.

The ice in the glass clinked softly as you walked back to your sun lounger, the condensation slipping between your fingers as you lightly sipped at the ridiculously gaudy drink Miles had pushed into your hands.

It was absurdly overdone, chunks of pineapple bobbing at the surface, a skewer of bright red maraschino cherries resting precariously on the rim, and, as if that weren’t enough, a cheap plastic straw adorned with a fake parrot, its tiny beady eyes staring blankly at you.

You barely tasted the drink itself, the lingering unease from your interaction at the bar curling like smoke in your stomach. You needed to breathe, needed to sit down. Needed Claire.

Because Miles had touched you. And now, even as you walked, the phantom weight of his hand on your waist still lingered like an oil stain, seeping under your skin, impossible to scrub away.

Your sun lounger was waiting, shaded slightly from the relentless midday sun. You settled down, adjusting your wrap skirt, crossing your legs as you tried to will the tension from your shoulders. You weren’t going to let this ruin your day.

You’d just sit here, sip your ridiculous drink, and wait for Claire to finish her conversation with Lionel and come back to you.

But then you heard him. Again.

Miles’ voice, still that same casual, easy-going tone, as if he hadn’t just made your entire body lock up at the bar.

“So,” he started, walking up behind you, the sound of his bare feet padding against the deck making your stomach tighten. “Been getting any writing done on this trip?”

You took another slow sip of the Cuban Breeze, barely reacting before you calmly responded, “No. Claire and I agreed not to do any work while we’re here.”

It wasn’t a lie. It also wasn’t the whole truth. Because even if you wanted to write, there was no way you’d be able to focus, not with this group. Not with the stress and the constant, looming reminder of what Claire had agreed to do for Miles.

Miles hummed as if considering your words. “I like that,” he mused, stepping further into your space, his shadow briefly passing over you. “I respect that. Work-life balance, that’s important. But listen…”

He sat down across from you, too close, the movement making your body tense involuntarily.

“I’ve been on the phone with some high-profile publishing houses,” he said, flashing that Miles Bron™ smile, the one that was meant to be charming but just felt like a sales pitch. “They’re very interested.”

You blinked at him, fingers tightening slightly around your glass.

There it was. Again. That same offer. That same temptation. And for a split second, you thought about it.

Not because you wanted Miles’ help, but because you knew how easy it would be to say yes. To let someone like him open doors that were otherwise bolted shut. To skip the years of clawing your way through an industry designed to keep people like you on the outside. But you’d already made your decision.

So you exhaled softly, offering a polite, measured smile. “Thank you, but no thank you.”

Miles laughed like you’d just told him something hilarious. “Why not take the help?” he grinned, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. “This could be so good for you.”

And before you could even think, even process, his hand was suddenly on your thigh. Just resting there. Casual. Like it belonged there. Your entire body went rigid.

Your breath hitched. You knew what he was doing. It wasn’t an accident. Wasn’t innocent. It was a test. He was seeing how far he could push you.

Your skin crawled, the urge to shove him off of you overwhelming, but you hesitated. Because what if? What if you pushed back and he made things worse? What if he decided Claire wasn’t worth the effort anymore? What if he destroyed her campaign just because he could?

Panic started creeping in. Your throat tightened. And without thinking, your eyes darted to Claire. She was in the infinity pool with Lionel, their backs to you, she had no idea what was happening. She had no idea that you were sitting here, frozen, with Miles’ hand on you, with his voice in your ear, pressing you, pushing you, trying to see how much he could get away with.

And for the first time since this entire trip began, you felt unsafe. Miles’ hand was still on your thigh. Heavy and possessive like it belonged there.

Your breath caught in your throat, body locked up so tight you thought you might snap. The more he talked, smooth and friendly, the more you shrank, wanting to disappear, to fold in on yourself until there was nothing left. You barely even heard his words, too busy trying to keep yourself still, too afraid that pulling away too sharply would be seen as rude, that it would set him off, that he’d take it as an invitation instead of a rejection.

Say something.

Move.

Do anything.

But you felt frozen, caught between the weight of his palm and the horrible sinking feeling in your stomach, the knowledge that one wrong move could make everything so much worse.

And suddenly a voice cut through your inner turmoil. “Miles,” Birdie drawled, lazily pushing down her sunglasses to peer at the two of you. “Is that my Cuban Breeze?!”

Your heart lurched.

Miles’ head turned at the sound of his name, his hand still firm on your thigh as he smirked at Birdie.

“The very same,” he said, tipping the glass toward her.

Birdie gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her chest like she was shocked, but you could see it now. The carefulness. The practice. The way she made her voice all light and excitable, playing into the only role she knew how to play, the fun and brainless Birdie J she’d curated so perfectly over the years.

If you weren’t still reeling, still trying not to shudder at the feel of Miles’ touch, you might’ve been impressed.

Instead, you just sat very still, barely breathing, barely blinking, as Birdie tossed her hair and insisted, “Miles! That was mine! Okay, that’s it, come on, we’re getting another one! We are ending up in the pool tonight.”

Miles chuckled, finally pulling his hand away as he stood, letting Birdie loop her arm through his. “We’re starting in the pool,” he teased.

And just like that, he was gone. Dragged away in a flurry of heels and jewelry and gleaming white teeth.

The second he was out of reach, your breath left you in a sharp, uneven rush. It was like you could breathe again. Like you were finally allowed to.

Tears pricked at your eyes, burning hot and humiliating, and you hated it. Hated that your body had betrayed you. Hated that your hands were shaking, that you felt gross, that even now, with him gone, you could still feel his palm on your skin.

You sucked in a sharp breath, blinking rapidly, fingers curling into the fabric of your wrap skirt, trying to keep yourself together.

“Hey.” The sound of Peg’s voice made you stiffen.

When you turned, she was already watching you, her lips pressed into a thin line. Laptop snapped shut. She’d seen the whole thing. And even though Peg was a lot of things, tired, overworked, probably one bad day away from quitting, she wasn’t heartless.

“…You okay?” It was a simple question, one that you should’ve answered easily. But the words stuck.

You swallowed hard, nodding too fast, forcing out a shaky, “I… I’m fine.”

Peg didn’t believe you. Didn’t even pretend to. She sighed, fingers drumming against her knee before she suggested, “You wanna go to the bathroom? When Birdie frustrates me, I splash some cold water on my face. Helps.”

You hesitated, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “…Yeah,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, okay.”

She stood up, waiting for you, and you went to move, only to stop short. Because the second you stood, you felt exposed, like everyone was watching you.

Your bikini suddenly felt too small. Your wrap skirt felt too sheer. You wrapped your arms around yourself, willing the rising panic to settle, but the words still came out wobbly when you stammered, “I—I think I need to grab a cover-up or something.”

You felt stupid the second you said it, but thankfully Peg was patient. Like she understood. Like she’d been in your position before, like she knew how it felt to be powerless, to be just unimportant enough that speaking up against the wrong man could destroy your entire life.

She just nodded. “Okay.”

And you were about to move when a familiar voice called out: “Baby?”

You froze. Oh, God. Claire. She was still in the infinity pool with Lionel, but now she was frowning at you from where she leaned against the edge, arms draped over the stone, her body half-submerged in the water.

She’d been distracted before, caught up in the kind of tense, anxious conversation that made the heat feel more oppressive than it already was. But now? Now she was looking at you. And seeing.

Your stomach twisted violently. The last thing you needed was Claire’s attention on you. The last thing you needed was for her to notice. To ask questions. To put things together. Because if Claire figured out what had happened, she would kill him. You knew that. And nothing good could come from that.

So before you could even try to answer, Peg, calm, steady and carefully measured, gave her a practiced smile and called back, “We’re fine! Just going to get something.”

You could still feel Claire’s eyes on you, heavy with suspicion.

You forced yourself to nod like that was true, like that was all it was, and then quickly turned, following Peg inside while trying not to let the horrible weight in your stomach sink you.

Peg followed you into your room, letting out a low whistle as she took in the space. “Damn,” she muttered, hands on her hips. “You got this? I have a glorified closet next to Birdie.”

You barely heard her. Your heart was still hammering, your skin still crawling, the weight of everything still pressing down on your chest like a slab of stone.

You beelined straight for the bathroom, fingers gripping the door frame as you mumbled, “Um- thanks for, uh…getting me here. But I’m fine now. You can go.”

Peg frowned. You couldn’t see it, you were already pushing the door closed between you, but you could hear it in her voice when she asked, “Are you sure? I can wait, if you want. Saves me from getting splashed by Duke’s cannonballs.”

She was offering kindness, a way out. But you couldn’t take it. Because even though she’d helped, even though she’d seen what happened and quietly stepped in, it didn’t change the fact that you felt like your skin had been stripped raw, like you’d been ripped open and had nowhere to hide. The only thing you wanted, the only thing you needed, was to be alone.

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see you, and murmured, “No, it’s okay. I might take a nap. Barely slept last night.”

Peg was quiet for a second, then she sighed. “…Alright.”

You heard her step away. The door clicked shut behind her. And then… nothing. Silence. For the first time since Miles had put his hands on you, you were alone.

You turned the lock with shaking fingers, turning the tap on full blast.

And then, you collapsed. Your knees hit the tile floor as you folded in on yourself, arms wrapping tight around your legs, forehead pressing against them as the first sob wrenched out of your chest, sharp and violent. You couldn’t stop it. Didn’t even try.

The sound of the rushing water drowned out your cries, but it didn’t drown out the feeling, the raw, suffocating sensation that filled every part of you, like your own body was a cage you were desperate to escape.

You could still feel him. His hand on your thigh. His arm around your waist. His voice, smooth and friendly, like he hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Like you were supposed to just accept it.

You pressed your hands against your face, trying to breathe, trying to make it stop, but nothing was working.

Because this wasn’t just Miles. This wasn’t just one moment. This was every time you’d felt small. Every time you’d felt powerless. Every time a man had looked at you and seen something that was his to conquer before you even got the chance to say hello.

And the worst part, the very worst part, was that you hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t pushed him away. Hadn’t made a scene. You just sat there frozen.

Another sob tore through you.

You clutched your knees tighter, nails digging into your own skin, trying to ground yourself, trying to remind yourself that he wasn’t here, that you were safe, that Claire would never let anything happen to you… oh god, Claire.

A new wave of panic crashed into you. Because Claire had seen you, she’d known something was wrong.

And if she found out, if she figured out what really happened, she would kill him. And Miles knew that. He counted on that. That was why he did it. Because he knew you wouldn’t dare tell her. Wouldn’t dare start anything that could ruin Claire’s chances, that could put her in a position where she had to choose between her career and you. You couldn’t let her find out. You couldn’t. Because if she did, this trip would turn into a bloodbath.

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking, trying to shove that thought down, trying to shove everything down, until it was buried deep enough that it wouldn’t come back up.

But for now, you could do nothing but sit there hugging yourself, rocking slightly, crying so hard it hurt. You didn’t know how long you sat there, curled up on the cold tile floor, knees hugged to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like you could somehow hold yourself together if you just squeezed tight enough.

At some point, the sobs slowed, your chest stopped heaving, and your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps instead of frantic, desperate gulps of air.

But the weight, the awful, sinking weight, still pressed down on you. You felt raw and stripped open. Exposed. Like if you looked in the mirror, you’d see something hollow staring back at you.

You couldn’t stay here, not on the floor. Not in this stupid fucking bikini that suddenly felt far too small, far too revealing, far too much like the exact thing Miles had been looking at, had been touching.

Your stomach turned as you forced yourself to your feet. Your legs were weak, shaking, like you’d been drained of everything that kept you upright, but you forced yourself to stumble out of the bathroom anyway.

Your vision blurred with the remnants of tears as you moved on autopilot, crossing the room to Claire’s suitcase, flipping it open, digging through neatly folded clothes and expensive fabrics until you found something soft and worn, something familiar.

An old Harvard alumni t-shirt.

The fabric was faded. The letters were cracking. The material was stretched from years of being yanked on, pulled over her head in half-asleep movements, tossed into the wash again and again.

She’d had it since college and she still brought it with her. You clutched it tight in your fingers, holding it to your chest for a moment before tearing the bikini off, ripping off the sheer skirt, pulling on a pair of Claire’s boxers, and yanking the t-shirt over your head.

The second it was on, you curled up on the bed, knees tucked to your chest, hands clenched in the fabric like a lifeline. It smelled like her like home, like safety.

You inhaled deep, trying to pull yourself together, trying to to fix yourself before she got back. Because if she saw you like this, if she even suspected something was wrong…

The door handle rattled.

You froze.

“Baby, why the fuck is the door bolted?” Claire’s voice called out, sounded worried and frustrated.

You scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over yourself in your rush to reach the door, unlocking it with trembling fingers before pulling it open.

Claire was standing there, brow furrowed, eyes scanning over you the second she saw you.

“I-I’m sorry,” you rushed out, voice still hoarse from crying. “I just… I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking.”

Claire crossed her arms, still looking at you like she was trying to figure something out. “Why are you in here?” she asked, tone shifting from frustration to confusion.

You swallowed, heart hammering. “I-I wasn’t feeling great,” you lied. “Thought I might nap.”

Claire tilted her head, studying you closer. Her gaze drifted down, taking in the clothes you were wearing, her boxers, her t-shirt, and her frown deepened. “…Why are you in my clothes?” she asked. “Not that I mind, but…you look like you’re ready for bed.”

You clenched your fingers tighter in the fabric, struggling to keep your voice even. “I just- I just wanted to be comfortable.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed like she sensed something wasn’t right. And fuck, you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep it together.

Claire didn’t let it go, of course she didn’t. She was a politician. She was sharp, too sharp to let something like this slip past her. And you knew that. Knew that the second she’d seen you, standing in the doorway in her old t-shirt, looking pale and shaken, something in her had clicked.

So you weren’t surprised when her eyes softened, not with relief, but with something much worse, with worry and with concern. With that keen, assessing gaze that meant she was already putting together the pieces of something you weren’t ready to say out loud.

“Baby,” she murmured, voice gentler now. “Are you sure?”

You nodded too fast, too eager. Too desperate.

“I-I’m fine, Claire,” you said, voice tight. “I just… I wasn’t feeling great, Peg walked me up, that’s all.”

Claire’s frown didn’t lift. Her hand came up, her soft, steady fingers reaching for you, instinctively seeking out the warmth of your skin… and you flinched.

It was a small movement, barely even noticeable, but Claire had felt it. She felt it and she froze. The space between you, already so small, suddenly felt like a canyon.

Her hand, still suspended midair, twitched before curling slowly back into a fist, falling back to her side. And the look on her face… that fucking look. You’d seen her angry, seen her livid. But this? This was something else entirely. This was something fragile.

“Baby,” she said carefully, like she was afraid you might shatter if she wasn’t careful. “What’s happening?”

You forced yourself to smile. Your face felt stiff, unnatural, like it knew you were lying before your mouth even formed the words. “It’s nothing,” you said, voice falsely light. “I’m fine.”

Claire’s expression darkened. It was clear she didn’t believe you, but before she could push further, something else flickered across her face.

Something pained, something hesitant. She swallowed thickly, shifting on her feet, suddenly unable to meet your eyes as she murmured, “Is this about…? About the trial?”

Your stomach dropped. “I-…”

“I know how you feel about this,” she said quickly, voice just shy of desperate. “And I know I should’ve said no, I know it’s fucked, I know it’s Andi, and I—”

She exhaled sharply, raking a hand through her hair. “But I didn’t know what else to do,” she admitted, shaking her head, and you could see it, the spiraling thoughts, the gnawing guilt. “I couldn’t say no, I-”

She broke off, biting her lip. “Baby, please don’t be upset with me.”

The pain in her voice made your chest ache.

“Oh, Claire,” you whispered, stepping forward, practically scrambling into her arms. “I’m not, baby. I promise. I’m not.”

Her arms hesitated for half a second before they locked around you, pulling you tight against her like she’d been starving for you, like she had thought you were slipping through her fingers and she needed to hold on.

“I swear,” you whispered against her neck. “I swear, baby, I’m not upset with you.”

She still looked unsure, still looked unconvinced.

So you tilted your chin up, kissing her. Soft. Sweet. Like a vow. “Claire,” you whispered against her lips. “Kiss me.”

She exhaled shakily, brushing her lips against yours again, slow, hesitant, like she was still bracing herself. “Baby,” she murmured, voice barely there.

“Please,” you whispered. “Kiss me.”

And that was all it took. Her hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing firm against the cotton of her boxers as she pulled you flush against her. Her mouth was soft, desperate against yours, kissing you with all the words she wasn’t saying, all the emotions tangled in her throat, all the tension coiling in her shoulders.

It wasn’t enough.

You kissed her harder, clutching at her like she was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. Because maybe… maybe she was.

Claire pulled away just slightly, enough to put space between your lips but not enough to let you go. Her hands still held you tight, her breath warm against your cheek as she searched your face.

Her fingers traced over the fabric of her old Harvard t-shirt on your body, her thumbs just grazing the bare skin of your thighs where the hem of the shirt rode up. The concern in her eyes was clear, cutting through the heat of the moment like a cold breeze.

“Baby,” she murmured, voice husky but still gentle. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to think about Miles. Didn’t want to think about the weight in your chest, the sick feeling in your stomach, the way your hands still trembled from earlier. So instead, you kissed her again. Only it wasn’t soft this time, it wasn’t careful, it was desperate. A need. A distraction.

Claire inhaled sharply through her nose, surprised, but didn’t hesitate to return it.

Her fingers tightened against your hips as you parted your lips, letting her deepen the kiss, her tongue sliding against yours. The room felt smaller, hotter, the air between you thick with tension.

She kissed you slowly, like she had all the time in the world to explore you, like she could feel something was off but wasn’t willing to pull away again just yet.

You weren’t going to let her. Your hands slid up her back, tugging her even closer, feeling the warmth of her skin through the lightweight linen of her shirt. You sighed against her lips, tilting your head to let her kiss deeper, harder, her teeth just grazing your bottom lip before she sucked it into her mouth.

And it worked for a while.

She let herself get lost in you, let you pull her down onto the bed, her hands exploring, moving under the oversized t-shirt to squeeze your waist, your hips, her fingertips grazing the sensitive skin at your sides. But then, again, she pulled back. Not much, just enough to make you chase after her, lips parted, eyes hazy, wanting more.

She smiled softly at how eager you were, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Baby,” she murmured again. “Talk to me.”

No. Not now. Not when you could still feel his hands. Not when you could still hear the low rasp of his voice, the forced friendliness of it, the way his fingers had lingered.

So you did the only thing you could do. You took her hands, her strong, capable, safe hands, and guided them up your body. Up, under your shirt. Up, over the bare curve of your breasts.

The second she realized what you were doing, her breath hitched.

“Touch me,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Claire groaned. A deep, low sound in her throat, her fingers instinctively flexing over your soft skin.

Her thumbs brushed over your nipples, making you shiver, and you gasped softly as she squeezed, kneading the weight of your breasts in her hands, her eyes darkening as she watched you react beneath her.

“You’re not playing fair,” she rasped, her voice deeper, rougher.

You didn’t care. Didn’t care if you were playing fair, if you were playing dirty, if you were making it impossible for her to think straight. All you wanted was to forget. To lose yourself in her. To make this, her, the only thing in your head.

Claire groaned again, leaning down to kiss you, slower this time, deeper, her hands still warm, still perfect as she touched you exactly the way you needed.

And for the first time that day, you let yourself breathe.

Claire groaned against your lips, her fingers flexing, kneading the soft weight of your breasts. She squeezed, just enough to make you gasp, her thumbs brushing over your already sensitive nipples. You whimpered, arching into her touch, your body desperate for it, for her.

“Shit, baby,” she murmured, voice low and rough, breath hot against your cheek. “Love playing with your tits.”

A whimper caught in your throat as she rolled your nipples between her fingers, tugging just enough to make your back arch. Your head spun, pleasure drowning out everything else, every thought, every memory, every trace of him.

There was only her.

Only Claire. Only the warmth of her hands, the teasing pull of her fingers, the way she cupped and squeezed and played with you like she had all the time in the world.

Your hips shifted restlessly against her, desperate for more, but Claire was focused, obsessed even, her eyes locked onto you, watching every little reaction, every soft whimper and sharp intake of breath.

“Look at you,” she muttered, voice thick with want. “So fucking pretty, baby. You like this?”

You could only nod, lips parted, a tiny, desperate sound slipping from your throat.

Claire smirked, then tugged at your nipples again, harder this time.

You whined, thighs squeezing together, body writhing under her.

She groaned at the sight, shifting to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your neck, nipping lightly at your skin. “Sensitive little thing,” she mused, rolling her hips just slightly against yours. “Love having my hands on you. Could touch you all fucking day.”

You gasped, your body a live wire under her touch, your mind too fuzzy to hold onto anything else, no worries, no fears, no past. Just Claire. Just her hands. Just the perfect way she owned you, made you forget everything except how good she made you feel.

Claire groaned, her fingers still teasing, still tugging, still making you squirm. Her thumbs brushed over your stiff nipples, and you gasped, your whole body trembling under her touch.

“Touch me all day,” you whimpered, desperate, pressing your chest further into her hands. “Please, baby. Don’t stop. I don’t wanna leave this room, I don’t wanna go anywhere, I just wanna stay here with you. Till this trip is over, till we’re home even, just stay with me, please.”

Her hands squeezed, tugged, making you gasp again, back arching. “Not until you tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours,” she murmured, voice husky but firm, her thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks.

A whimper left your lips as you scrambled for something, anything to keep her from pressing, to keep her hands on you, to keep you here, safe.

“Nothing,” you gasped, shaking your head. “Can’t think of anything but you, please, mommy.”

Claire froze.

For the first time since she had laid her hands on you, she paused, fingers still resting against your flushed, sensitive skin, her dark eyes searching yours. Because she knew. She knew you. She knew how you sounded when you were desperate, when you wanted her. She knew how you sounded when you were trying to run. And right now, she could tell the difference.

She frowned, torn, her fingers twitching against your skin. Because fuck, here you were, your tits out, gasping, offering yourself to her like the sweetest fucking thing she’d ever seen, like all you wanted was for her to take care of you, to make you forget. But she hated that you needed to forget something. She hated the way you had flinched before. She hated the way you were running from something you weren’t telling her about.

Her jaw tensed, eyes flicking between yours, searching, debating, trying to decide whether to push or to give in, to give you what you wanted, what you needed, or to pull back, to demand the truth. Her hands were still on you, warm, steady, but her gaze was something different now, something deeper, something filled with something close to fear. And she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do with it.

Claire’s hands dropped from your body completely as she stepped back, putting space between you for the first time since she’d walked into the room. The shift in her presence was instant. Where there had been heat, hunger, devotion, there was now something sharp, something concerned, something demanding.

“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “Baby, no. I love you, but no. You’re talking to me about this.”

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably, and you sighed, tugging your top back down to cover yourself, suddenly feeling too exposed, too vulnerable. You folded your arms over yourself, hugging your own body, trying to push down the sting of tears in your throat.

“It’s nothing,” you murmured. “It’s stupid. A total overreaction, honestly, don’t worry.”

Claire’s eyes darkened in an instant. “Overreaction to what?”

You exhaled heavily, your gaze flicking anywhere but her, trying to will the tension in the room to evaporate, to let this moment pass. But Claire wouldn’t let it pass. Not when she was looking at you like that, standing there so still, so steady but ready, like a storm just before it broke.

You clenched your jaw, fingers gripping your own arms. You could still feel it, the weight of his arm slung around your waist, the press of his palm against your hip, the casual, entitled way he had touched you, like you were just another thing in his collection.

You swallowed, forcing the words out. “Miles touched me.”

The room went silent. Claire went rigid. “What the fuck did you just say?”

You sighed, shaking your head quickly, already seeing the way her expression was shifting, darkening into something terrifying, something lethal.

“See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you,” you said quickly, voice tight with nerves. “It was nothing, really.”

But Claire was already moving before you could stop her, spinning toward the door like she was about to hunt him down, like she was going to tear him apart.

“Claire- no,” you gasped, grabbing her wrist, holding on tight. “Please. It’s not- it’s not that serious.”

She turned back to you, her entire body vibrating with fury, her jaw clenched so tightly you could hear her teeth grind. “Not that serious?” she repeated, voice low, dangerous. “He touched you. You flinched when I tried to touch you, baby. And you want me to pretend that’s not that serious?”

You swallowed, shifting closer to her, your grip on her wrist tightening as panic built in your chest. “Claire, please,” you whispered. “You know him. You know what he’s like. If you make this a thing, he’s gonna- he’s gonna lash out, he’s gonna make things worse. I can’t- I can’t let you do this. It’s not important enough to make waves, okay?”

Claire’s nostrils flared, her entire body tense, her fists clenched so hard they shook. “Baby,” she said, voice low, raw, pained, “you are the most important thing.”

You let out a shaky breath, moving in closer, pressing yourself against her as if you could just melt into her body, as if you could disappear into her arms and make all of this go away.

“Then don’t say anything,” you whispered, voice pleading. “For me, okay? Just- just don’t say anything. Just stay with me. It’s not long now, till this is over. Just stay with me.”

She let out a slow, heavy breath, and for a moment, you thought she might argue, might tell you she couldn’t stay silent, that she wouldn’t. But then she sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly, her hands finally coming up to grip your arms, sliding up, squeezing gently.

She leaned in, pressing her forehead against yours, her breath warm on your lips. “Fine,” she murmured. “I won’t say anything.”

You exhaled in relief, letting yourself fall into her, wrapping yourself around her, inhaling the scent of her, the scent of something grounding, something safe.

“But I promise you this,” she said, voice firm, unwavering. “I won’t leave your side for a second.”

Claire held you close, arms locked around you like she was anchoring you to the world, keeping you safe. And for a second, just a second, you let yourself believe that maybe she could, that maybe if she just held you tight enough, she could erase it, make the sick feeling in your stomach disappear, make the memory of his hand on your thigh vanish.

But your chest tightened, and you let out a shaky breath, pressing your face into the crook of her neck as the tears finally spilled over.

Claire’s grip immediately tightened, her hand stroking up and down your back, her lips pressing against your hair. “Baby,” she whispered, pained, helpless. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

And that only made you cry harder.

“It wasn’t even explicit,” you choked out, voice thick with tears. “It’s not like he- he said anything outright, or, or forced anything, or even made me feel threatened exactly, it was just…” You swallowed hard, hands fisting in the fabric of her shirt. “It was just the way he made me feel.”

Claire exhaled slowly, her jaw clenched against your temple, silent but listening.

You sniffled, trying to collect yourself, but it was so hard when she was holding you like this, when the warmth of her body was so safe but the memory of his touch was still lingering.

You took a shuddering breath. “And the book deals… God, Claire, the way he talks about them, it’s like a business proposition. Like- like, look at Whisky, she played the game, she made herself useful, so why wouldn’t I?” Your throat tightened. “And the worst part is, it didn’t even feel calculated. He wasn’t, like, deliberately pressuring me. It’s just…”

You shook your head, letting out a bitter, wet laugh.

“It’s just that he assumed,” you whispered, voice raw. “He assumed that if he made a move, if he offered himself up, I wouldn’t be able to resist.”

Claire’s hold on you turned almost crushing, her breath shaking as she nuzzled into your hair. “He really thinks he’s that fucking irresistible,” she muttered, voice dark, dangerous.

You huffed out a small, mirthless laugh, tears still slipping down your cheeks. “I mean,” you said weakly, “I’m a lesbian. Surely he must know this won’t work on me.”

Claire let out an incredulous breath, shaking her head against yours, and then she pulled back slightly, cupping your face in her hands, wiping your tears away with her thumbs.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, voice thick with a painful sort of fondness, something utterly devoted but also furious on your behalf.

You sniffled, pressing into her touch, her warmth, her safety.

“I hate him,” Claire said simply, fingers stroking your cheeks, voice soft but lethal. “I hate him so much, baby.”

You closed your eyes, exhaling slowly. “I know.”

“And I can’t do anything about it?”

You swallowed, looking at her desperately. “Please, Claire.”

Her jaw clenched, and she took a slow, grounding breath. “Okay,” she murmured, voice rough, uneven. “Okay. But I’m not letting him near you again.”

You nodded, finally, fully collapsing into her arms.

And she held you like she never intended to let you go.

Claire had been holding you for what felt like forever, her hands gentle but firm, her touch grounding you, keeping you here, keeping you safe. Her thumbs kept stroking small, soothing circles into your back, and every few moments, she’d kiss the top of your head like she needed to remind you she was there, like she needed to remind herself that you were safe in her arms.

Eventually, you sniffled, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Okay,” you whispered, voice still thick from crying. “We should go back out.”

Claire searched your face, her hands coming up to cup your cheeks, her thumbs brushing over your damp skin. She hesitated, like she was looking for any reason to keep you in here, away from them, but eventually, she nodded.

“Yeah, baby,” she murmured. “Wanna swim together?”

The corner of your lips quirked, a small, shy smile as you nodded.

She beamed, her whole face lighting up like she was so proud of you for being brave enough to step outside again, and she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips before pulling back. “Okay,” she said gently, giving your arms a little squeeze. “Let’s get changed.”

Your heart fluttered as you moved to grab your bikini, but the moment you held it in your hands, you hesitated, suddenly feeling too exposed, too seen.

Claire noticed immediately, stepping behind you, her hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “Hey, baby,” she murmured, voice soft. “It’s okay. Why don’t we bring a cover-up for when we get out of the pool, yeah?”

You nodded, letting out a small breath of relief, and Claire kissed your temple before helping you change. She took her time adjusting the strings of your bikini, making sure you were comfortable before slipping a light, soft cover-up over your shoulders. Her fingers smoothed down the fabric, and then she pulled you into her chest, wrapping her arms around you.

“Perfect,” she murmured, lips pressing softly against the shell of your ear. “So, so perfect, baby.”

You melted into her, letting her kiss you slow and sweet before she finally took your hand and led you back outside.

The sun was bright, almost too bright after the dimmed comfort of the bedroom, and for a moment, you hesitated. But Claire squeezed your hand, glancing over at you with a warm, reassuring smile, and just like that, the tension in your shoulders eased.

She guided you to a sun lounger, settling you down before straddling the lounger behind you, reaching for the sunscreen.

“Can’t have my baby getting burned,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck before squeezing a generous amount of sunscreen into her hands.

You shivered as her fingers smoothed over your back, rubbing the lotion into your skin with slow, thorough movements. She took her time, her hands massaging over your shoulders, your arms, your spine, her thumbs pressing gently into the muscles of your back.

“You’re so tense, baby,” she murmured, kissing the top of your shoulder as her hands kneaded softly. “Just relax, I’ve got you.”

You let out a small, content sigh, leaning into her touch as she continued working the sunscreen over your skin, her hands trailing down your sides, over your stomach, your thighs. By the time she was done, you were practically boneless, melted into her lap.

She chuckled, kissing the side of your neck again. “All good?”

You turned to her with a soft, sleepy smile, reaching for the sunscreen bottle. “Your turn.”

Claire smirked but let you maneuver yourself onto your knees, facing her as you squeezed some sunscreen onto your palms. You started at her shoulders, your hands gliding over her skin, taking your time to rub in the lotion with the same slow, methodical care she’d given you.

When you reached her chest, you frowned, tsking lightly. “Baby, you’re burning up,” you murmured, pouting.

Claire laughed, shaking her head as you ran your hands over her collarbones, her sternum, rubbing in more sunscreen than necessary, but she wasn’t about to complain when you were touching her so sweetly.

“Is that so?” she teased, raising an eyebrow.

You nodded firmly, smoothing more lotion over her shoulders, pressing a lingering kiss to her clavicle before finally pulling back. “There. Now you’re safe.”

Claire grinned, stealing a quick kiss before taking your hand and guiding you toward the pool.

The water was cool against your overheated skin, and the second you both stepped in, you melted, your muscles relaxing under the gentle sway of the water.

Claire waded in deeper, and the moment she was deep enough, you launched yourself into her arms, wrapping your legs around her waist, your arms around her shoulders, clinging to her like a little koala.

She let out a soft, delighted laugh, immediately wrapping her arms around you, one hand splayed over your back, the other cupping the back of your head. “There’s my baby,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You hummed, burying your face in her neck, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of her sunscreen, her shampoo, her everything.

She swayed the two of you gently in the water, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back.

“Better?” she murmured.

You nodded, nuzzling into her.

She kissed the top of your head, her arms tightening around you. “Good,” she whispered. “I’ve got you, baby. I’m not letting go.”

And you believed her.

You were so warm, so content, pressed against Claire’s chest in the pool, her arms wrapped around you as the water gently rocked you both. The sun was high in the sky, making everything hazy and golden, and you felt yourself slowly slipping into that perfect in-between space, not quite asleep, not quite awake, just floating.

Claire must’ve noticed, because she pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, murmuring, “Getting sleepy, baby?”

You hummed, barely able to keep your eyes open, completely at ease in her arms. “Mhm.”

But before you could drift off, a loud, roaring noise shattered the peace, making you jump in shock. You instinctively clung tighter to Claire, heart thudding as the sound grew closer, and then…

VROOOOM.

Your head snapped around just in time to see three luxury jet skis zooming through the water at high speed, the engines slicing through the otherwise still bay. They were sleek, brand new, painted in obnoxious metallic colors, gold, deep red, electric blue.

From the deck, Miles clapped his hands together, grinning wildly. “Gang! The speedboats are here!!”

Lionel, who had been sitting with his sunglasses on, letting his stress radiate into the atmosphere, slowly turned to look at Miles and sighed heavily. “Miles… these are jet skis. Very different.”

Miles rolled his eyes. “Same thing.” Then he grinned again, rubbing his hands together like some cartoon villain. “Now, c’mon! Let’s see who can beat Duke!”

Duke, already puffing up with pride, flexed his arms, the ridiculous tattoo of a gun on his bicep bulging. “Hell yeah, bro!” He turned to Whisky, all amped up now. “Babe! We need to take some videos for the channel, c’mon!”

Whisky, who had been lounging under the sun with an expression of mild boredom, suddenly perked up. She flipped her hair back, flashing a camera-ready smile. “Yes, Duke-y! Sounds good!”

You could tell immediately that she was excited to be featured more on the channel. A chance to get more views, to build a bigger following. She was already pulling out her phone, checking the angles, making sure she was camera-ready.

You sighed and turned your attention to Claire, who was watching the scene unfold with the most unimpressed expression you had ever seen. “…Baby,” you murmured, voice amused, “you don’t look very excited.”

Claire scoffed, glancing back at the jet skis with an expression like they had personally offended her. “That’s because I’m not.”

You grinned, already knowing full well that high-speed water sports were not her thing. “Aw, come on. You don’t wanna go race Duke?”

She shot you a look. “Absolutely not.”

And honestly? You were kinda with her on that one.

Taglist: @harknessshi @agathascoven1 @notorious-vick @jessica-mcd @sapphicfleur @lisqueen @starryjeongyeon @brekker157 @maximilfism @meghina18 @onlybynightandonlybysea @buttercandy16 @milflovers4 @rigglemethat @mistyshane30 @certified-sleep-deprived @agathaallalongg @yun4-st4rx @psychickryptonitebouquet @athnastasia @eletricheart @her0in-addicttt @writerspirit @sarahhh-plz @imlike-so-gaydude @morallygreymilfs @worstendingever @trasheddoll2 @womankissersworld @rizzlesregal13 @lowlyjelly @nightlyconfusion @morgananyx @agathaspett

#claire debella x reader #claire debella #kathryn hahn #kathryn hahn x reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x reader

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sicutpuella · 6 months ago

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Sweet Like Honey | Simon Riley x Reader

A honey trap—such a sterile phrase his superiors used, as if it could sanitize the rot festering in his conscience. Unethical? Yes; but that single syllable barely scratched the surface of his transgression. They needed information, they said, and Simon—God help him—had orchestrated every tender moment, every breathless laugh, every trembling touch with surgical precision. His superiors, those faceless men in their stark offices, had pushed the proposal forward; they wanted him closer to her father, that suspected architect of labyrinthine offshore accounts.

He remembers that exact moment. Her eyes had sparkled with tears of joy when he dropped to one knee—tears that now haunted his dreams, crystalline drops of his betrayal. In quiet moments, when she lay sleeping beside him, her trust radiating like warmth against his skin, the question would claw at his throat: When she discovers the truth—not if, but when—will those same tears fall in rivers of rage? Will her love calcify into hatred, sharp enough to pierce the armor he'd built around his guilt?

"Three years of marriage." Her words floated like seafoam in the Mykonos twilight; wine-hazed eyes drinking in the pastel sky as if it were a gift he'd arranged specially for their anniversary.

Simon's jaw tightened—a muscle working beneath the skin—as waves lapped at their bare feet with metronome precision. The word 'marriage' sat like bile in his throat; every anniversary a fresh reminder of his calculated lies. He fixed his gaze on the bleeding horizon—anywhere but at her—letting the salt wind strip away the taste of guilt that had become his constant companion.

"Yeah... three bloody years." The words scraped past his lips, his British accent thick and coarse as Mediterranean sand. A bitter laugh threatened to escape—three years of this charade, three years of her soft touches that felt like brands against his skin. "Can't believe it's been that long."

She reached for his hand; he let her take it.

"I'm so happy you married me..." Her words hung in the salt air—fragile as soap bubbles, painful in their innocence. Those eyes, sparkling with a love he could never return, cut deeper than any interrogation he'd endured in the field.

Simon's muscles coiled beneath his skin; her declaration struck like a precisely aimed blade. His jaw worked silently—grinding truth to dust—as guilt wrapped its familiar fingers around his throat. The sensation lasted only moments before training kicked in; sentiment was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had a job to do—always the job.

"Yeah..." The word emerged like gravel. His expression hardened into the mask he'd worn for three years. "Me too."

A heartbeat of hesitation—then, striving for conviction: "It was the right thing to do..."

She wound herself around his arm like morning glory seeking sunlight. "Do you love me?" The question dripped with need for reassurance; every syllable another weight added to the anchor of his deception.

A muscle betrayed him—twitching in his jaw like Morse code airing out his lies.

"Course I do..." The words tasted of ashes as he forced himself to meet her gaze. Her eyes—God, those trusting eyes—gleamed up at him like searchlights through his carefully constructed shadows, sending fresh waves of guilt crashing against his ribs.

Mission parameters flashed through his mind like a lifeline: just a mission, a means to an end—nothing more. Clinical words that did nothing to dull the edge of her next question.

"Have I made you happy?"

The question hung between them like a loaded gun; he wondered which of them it would wound more deeply.

Simon's jaw ticked—a mechanical tell he couldn't control—as her voice spilled sweetness and light into the darkening air. His fists clenched; knuckles white with the effort of containing truths that would shatter her world.

"Yeah... you have." The words scraped past gritted teeth; his tone harsh enough to wound—though whether himself or her, he wasn't certain.

He forced himself to look at her—God help him—and found trust swimming in those eyes; love so pure it sent guilt cascading through his veins like ice water. Training kicked in like muscle memory: compartmentalize, distance, remember the mission parameters. This was all theater—a carefully orchestrated performance where he played the doting husband.

"If I make you uncomfortable or unhappy—" her voice trembled with an eagerness that flayed him alive—"tell me what to do and I'll change whatever it is you don't like about me."

Simon's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of her devotion; each word of self-doubt another stone added to the cairn of his shame. Her willingness to reshape herself for a man who didn't exist—it was obscene in its innocence.

"You don't need to change anything." His voice emerged gruff, carefully modulated to hide the storm beneath. "You're perfect the way you are." Perfect—and that made it infinitely worse.

As they walked further along the shore, his boss's voice slithered through his memory like an oil slick: "Give her a baby, Riley. Solidify that you're a family man to her and her family... that'll make them trust you more..."

The waves crashed against the shore; Simon wondered if they could wash away the taste of bile rising in his throat. A baby—the ultimate collateral damage in this game of shadows and lies. His handler's words echoed like bullets in an empty chamber; each one designed to kill whatever conscience he had left.

Simon's gut twisted into knots as his handler's words burrowed deeper—parasitic thoughts breeding shame. Using her love, her body, their marriage had been one thing; but this—creating life as a prop in their charade—made bile rise bitter in his throat.

He swallowed against the acid guilt. "Baby..." The endearment scraped past his lips like broken glass; his voice rough with self-loathing. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Yeah, baby?" Her response came wrapped in a smile—always that damned smile on her gorgeous face; each curve of her lips another twist of the knife he'd planted in his own conscience.

Simon guided her toward a secluded stretch of beach—away from witnesses to his latest betrayal. His muscles coiled tight as she called him 'baby'; the war in his mind reached fever pitch—duty and disgust grappling in the shadows of his skull. Professional distance crumbled beneath the weight of what he was about to propose.

He drew in a breath that tasted of salt and lies; tried to fortify himself against the magnitude of this new deception. Speaking had never been his strong suit—now words felt like weapons turned inward.

"...I've been thinking about something." His voice dropped low; serious—as if gravity itself could lend legitimacy to this fresh hell.

"I've been thinking..." Another breath—sharp enough to cut—"that maybe we should start trying for a baby..."

The words fell like stones into the space between them; he couldn't bear to meet her eyes. Instead, his gaze fixed on the sand—watching darkness creep across it like the stain he felt spreading through his soul. This was more than a mission parameter now; this was crossing a line he hadn't known existed until he stood at its edge—about to take a step that could never be untaken.

Her eyes widened—galaxies of hope expanding in those innocent depths.

The squeal that erupted from her lips pierced the evening air: "Yes! Yes!"

Simon's face contracted like a wound being stitched; her unbridled joy a fresh kind of torture. The guilt gnawed at his bones—a familiar parasite he'd learned to live with—but he buried it beneath layers of practiced indifference. Just the job, just the bloody job.

"Yeah... yeah..." The words tasted of ash in his mouth as he attempted enthusiasm—a poor actor playing at happiness. "I thought it was time." Time for what? Another layer of betrayal; another innocent drawn into his lies?

Her face glowed with such pure delight—Christ, if she only knew the truth behind his proposal, would that radiance transform into something that could burn him alive?

"I'm so happy... I'm so happy..." She bounced on her toes like an excited child; her eyes swimming with naked affection as she gazed up at him. "Can we try tonight?"

The question hit him like a body blow—air evacuating his lungs in a silent gasp. His jaw clenched; muscle memory of contained revulsion. "Tonight?" His voice emerged rough as sandpaper. "Uhh... tonight?"

The speed of her agreement caught him off-guard; reality crashed over him like a cold wave. The physical act loomed before him—another performance in his repertoire of deception. But sex is sex—a mantra he'd repeated through three years of marriage; a thin comfort that grew thinner with each repetition.

"Sure baby... sure." The agreement slipped past his defenses before he could stop it.

Sex is still sex—the lie tasted bitter this time.

"Yeah... alright... tonight." Each word dragged like shrapnel from a wound.

Simon forced the syllables past the knot of self-loathing in his gut. Conflict churned inside him—desire warring with disgust, duty grappling with decency. But there was no extraction plan for this mission; no way to abort without destroying everything.

He drew in a breath that felt sharp as glass. "We'll head back to the room then, yeah?"

His extended hand seemed to belong to someone else—a stranger playing at being a loving husband. His mind raced through a labyrinth of regrets; each thought a new dead end. The fraud of it all pressed against his chest—this performance of love, this pantomime of family planning.

"Come on." The words scraped past his lips, gruff with barely contained turmoil. "Let's go."

Each step toward their room felt like moving through quicksand—every movement drawing him deeper into a lie he might never escape.

That evening, as she lay beneath him—trusting, eager, loving—his guilt manifested in the most primal betrayal of all. The little blue pill dissolved on his tongue earlier was his shameful secret; another lie to add to his collection. His body rebelled against his deception—even chemistry couldn't fully overcome the weight of his conscience.

It should have been paradise, shouldn't it? Being buried in the warm sanctuary of her body—her beauty undeniable, her desire genuine. But paradise, he'd learned, couldn't be built on foundations of sand and shadows. Each tender touch felt like judgment; each passionate kiss a sentence passed. His pleasure came tainted with self-loathing—mechanical responses to artificial stimulation.

The truth burned in his throat like acid: he couldn't maintain arousal—not with guilt wrapped around his throat like a garrote; not with his handler's voice echoing in his mind. This secret he'd take to his grave—another shard of shame embedded too deep to ever extract. The warmth of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; heaven transformed into a special kind of hell, designed just for him.

She lay beneath him—all warmth and trust and love—while his heart turned to ice in his chest. The dim light caught the gold of her wedding ring; it flickered like an accusation with every movement. His own ring felt like a brand against his skin, burning with each tender touch she offered.

The chemistry coursed through his veins—artificial desire fighting against the tide of his guilt. Her fingers traced patterns of affection across his shoulders; each caress felt like judgment carved into his flesh. Paradise turned to purgatory; pleasure transformed into punishment.

"I love you," she whispered against his neck—words that should have been salvation became damnation instead.

His body responded while his mind recoiled; training and tablets working in tandem to maintain this cruelest deception. She arched beneath him—so trusting, so eager to create life with a man who was more shadow than substance. Her skin flushed with genuine desire; his grew cold with calculated performance.

The sounds she made—soft sighs of pleasure, whispered endearments—echoed in his skull like accusations. Each thrust felt mechanical; each kiss a fresh betrayal. His handler's voice mingled with her moans: "family man... make them trust you more..." Until he couldn't tell where the mission ended and the madness began.

Her hands cupped his face—so gentle, so loving—and he wanted to weep at the cruel irony. Here she was, trying to create life with a man who died a little more with each tender touch. The heat of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; intimacy perverted into intelligence gathering.

He buried his face in her neck—not from passion, but to hide the war raging behind his eyes. She mistook his shuddering for pleasure; it was revulsion at himself. Even as his body chased its chemical conclusion, his mind splintered into fragments of guilt and duty and shame—pieces too sharp to ever fit back together.

Mediterranean sunlight crept through the curtains like liquid gold.

"Did you have fun?" Her question floated up from the tangled sheets; innocent as morning dew.

Guilt lanced through him—sharp and familiar now. Her eagerness to please him felt like needles under his skin; every effort she made to earn love he couldn't give was another weight added to his conscience.

He forced out a grunt—another performance in his endless repertoire. "Yeah... yeah I did. You've gotten better." The words tasted of copper and shame.

"Why do you ask?" He aimed for casual; missed by miles—tension threading through his voice like steel wire.

"I just want to make sure I'm making you happy," she murmured against his chest, fingers tracing abstract patterns on his skin. "I read some articles about... you know... trying for a baby. Making it more likely to happen." A soft laugh escaped her—pure, unguarded. "I want to do everything right."

Her head rested on his shoulder—soft hair brushing his skin like whispered accusations. Any other man would thank whatever god they believed in for a woman like her; Simon could only hate himself more with each gentle breath she took.

He wrapped an arm around her—another act in this elaborate charade—pulling her closer even as his soul recoiled. The weight of her trust pressed against him harder than her body ever could. She felt like silk against his skin; he felt like sandpaper against hers—rough with deception, coarse with lies.

The urge to push her away clawed at his chest—to end this facade, to confess every sin he'd committed in the name of duty. But the mission bound him like chains forged from his own choices. His mind waged its endless war: duty versus decency, mission versus morality. An innocent woman lay in the crossfire, and he'd loaded every bullet himself.

Her warmth seeped into his side; he wondered if it would ever wash away the cold calculation that had become his core.

Simon slouched in the corner, half-hidden by a wall of pastel balloons and garlands, the sound of laughter and soft coos grating against him like nails on glass. She was radiant, glowing in that way all the books and articles had promised, a woman basking in the warmth of her impending motherhood. Friends and family surrounded her, hands touching her belly as though it held some sacred truth he could never understand. She laughed—a sweet, unguarded sound that should have brought him joy. Instead, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He couldn’t bring himself to join the celebration; every time he looked at her, every time she glanced over and smiled at him, something twisted deep in his gut—a sharp, relentless reminder that he was a fraud. She deserved a man who’d be a father in more than name alone, someone who’d be wrapped up in this new life with her, but all he could feel was the weight of his shame and pathetic self pressing down on him.

That evening, Simon spun a quick excuse for her—something about a problem at the office, a sudden emergency requiring his immediate attention. She barely questioned him, simply nodded with that gentle trust he’d come to dread. But his destination wasn’t the office; it was a dimly lit bar, a familiar back corner where his superior waited, nursing a drink and an expression Simon could only describe as smug satisfaction.

“So… successfully knocked an heiress up, eh?” The words rolled off his boss’s tongue as if they were discussing the weather.

Simon ground his teeth, feeling a spike of anger flare in his chest. “Yeah.” The response was clipped, his jaw clenched so tight he could barely force the words out. “I did what you asked.”

“Head over heels for you, is she?” His boss laughed, a low, contemptuous sound. “God, the poor thing.”

Each word felt like a blade twisting deeper. Yes, she loved him; she loved him with a sincerity he’d never known he could inspire. But the way his boss spoke of it—as if her affection was some cheap victory, as if her trust was a trophy to be tossed aside—made his blood run cold.

He balled his fists beneath the table, his knuckles turning white. “I know,” he said through gritted teeth, barely able to keep his voice steady.

“We didn’t think you’d pull it off this well.” The amusement in his boss’s voice was unmistakable. “We knew you could manipulate—use people; that’s what you do best, after all. But to get her so… blindly devoted? Impressive, even for you.”

Simon bit down hard, jaw aching as he fought to keep the bile from rising. He didn’t want to hear it; he didn’t want to hear about how flawlessly he’d betrayed her, how thoroughly he’d convinced her of a love that was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

“She trusts me,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, hoping to deflect, to shut down this sickening praise.

His boss let out a chuckle, cold and mocking. “Just trust, is it? Sure, if that’s what you want to call it. But come on—no credit for yourself? I think you deserve a bonus for this one, Riley. You’ve put in the work, pulled all the strings. Hell, even I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Simon felt himself go still, every muscle in his body wound tight, like a coiled spring about to snap. The monster his boss saw in him—was that all he’d ever be? He forced himself to nod, his voice barely a murmur. “Yeah… sure. Send some extra cash my way if it makes you feel better.”

“Good,” his boss replied, that smug satisfaction radiating from him like poison. “I’m proud of you, Riley. You’ve secured an influential family, locked down the daughter. And soon enough, there’ll be a little Riley running around, further cementing our foothold.”

A wave of nausea rolled through him at that. His boss spoke as though this were just another operation, another mission ticked off the list. Not a woman’s life, not a child’s future—just another step in their endless game of leverage and control.

Simon gave a curt nod, jaw so tight it felt like it might shatter. He kept his silence, swallowing the urge to spit some scathing retort, to lash out and tear down every vile word his boss had spoken.

“Good,” his boss said again, with a finality that felt like chains tightening around Simon’s throat. “Keep it up… and, of course, gather all the intel you can on her father.”

Simon didn’t respond. He simply sat there, silent and still, the weight of his choices pressing down like iron shackles. The mission bound him—bound him tighter than any oath he’d ever sworn—and he couldn’t escape the feeling that, somewhere along the line, he’d traded his soul for it.

All photos sourced through Pinterest

Headers made by @rookthornesartistry

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jzprncess · 3 months ago

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threads of the past ౨ৎ

pairing : charles leclerc x reader

faceclaim : various people

main summary : Y/N and Charles grew up together in Monaco, sharing a close bond until her mother took her away after a family conflict. Many years later, after a loss she had to endure, Y/N returns to Monaco to fulfill a promise. There, she unexpectedly reunites with Charles, now a successful Formula 1 driver.

part 1

word count : 3,989

warnings : some designers do not exist in this au since i might take their fashion pieces!

note: this series will start off as a regular story and than gradually become a smau i think. i dont know tbh.

────୨ৎ────

The early afternoon sun bathed the narrow streets of Monaco in a golden glow, the faint hum of the Mediterranean breeze carrying the scent of jasmine and saltwater. In a quiet corner of the city, two children raced barefoot along the cobblestone path, their laughter echoing off the pastel walls of the buildings.

“Faster, Charles! You’re going to lose!” Y/N called over her shoulder, her grin wide as she darted ahead, her sundress billowing behind her.

“I don’t lose!” Charles shouted back, his face red from effort, his untamed brown hair sticking to his forehead. His determination was as fiery as the midday heat, and it wasn’t long before he closed the gap between them.

With one final burst of energy, Charles lunged forward, tagging Y/N’s shoulder just as she reached the large oak tree at the end of their street. They both collapsed in a heap beneath the tree, panting and giggling.

“You cheated,” Y/N accused, pointing a chalky finger at him.

Charles sat up straight, his chest puffed out proudly. “Did not. I’m just faster than you.”

She scoffed, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “Only because I let you win.”

“Sure, you did,” he replied with a smirk, grabbing a fallen leaf and sticking it in her hair.

“Charles!” Y/N squealed, swatting at him as he burst out laughing. She shoved him lightly, but her smile betrayed her lack of seriousness.

Their days were often like this—filled with playful arguments, endless games, and the kind of joy that could only come from being young and carefree.

The bond between Y/N and Charles had formed long before either of them could remember. Their mothers often joked that they were inseparable from the moment they learned to walk. Born just two months apart, they’d spent nearly every day of their childhood together, whether it was exploring the rocky beaches or building forts in the small park near their street.

In the summer, they would race handmade sailboats in the fountain at the Place d’Armes. Y/N’s boats were always more colorful, with bright scraps of fabric for sails, while Charles’ were sturdy and precise, made with the help of his father.

“Yours is going to sink,” Charles teased one afternoon, nudging her shoulder as they crouched by the fountain’s edge.

“Is not! Look, it’s already ahead of yours,” Y/N shot back, pointing to where her pink-sailed boat bobbed confidently on the water.

“That’s because I let you go first,” Charles argued, though his grin gave him away.

When her boat finally won, Y/N jumped to her feet, hands in the air. “I win! Told you mine was better!”

Charles groaned dramatically, flopping onto the grass beside the fountain. “Fine, you win. But only because mine hit a leaf.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Y/N said, lying down next to him.

They stared up at the clear blue sky, the sound of birds chirping and distant waves lapping at the shore filling the silence.

“Do you think we’ll always stay here?” Y/N asked, her voice soft.

“Of course,” Charles replied without hesitation. “Where else would we go?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She didn’t want to think about what life would be like if things ever changed.

Their friendship was the kind that felt unshakable. They knew everything about each other—what foods they hated, which hiding spots were the best during hide-and-seek, and even their secret fears.

One evening, as the sun dipped low over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, they sat cross-legged on the floor of Y/N’s bedroom. The soft hum of cicadas drifted through the open window.

“What are you scared of, Charles?” Y/N asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, puffing out his chest.

“Liar,” Y/N teased, poking his arm. “Everyone’s scared of something.”

Charles hesitated, his cheeks turning slightly pink. “Fine. I don’t like the dark.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Really? But you always act so brave!”

He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “It’s just... sometimes it feels like there’s something there, even when I know there isn’t.”

Y/N reached over and squeezed his hand. “If you’re ever scared, you can call me. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”

Charles looked at her, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks. What about you? What are you scared of?”

She hesitated, glancing down at her lap. “That someday... we won’t be friends anymore.”

Charles’s brow furrowed. “Why would you think that?”

Y/N shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes my parents fight a lot, and my mom says things about leaving Monaco.”

Charles’s grip on her hand tightened. “You’re not going anywhere. I won’t let you.”

The conviction in his voice made her smile, even as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. “Promise?”

“Promise,” he said firmly.

But life had other plans.

A few weeks later, Charles started karting. At first, Y/N thought it was just another one of his hobbies, like soccer or building model airplanes. But it quickly became clear that this was different. Charles was obsessed, spending every spare moment practicing or talking about races.

Y/N tried to be supportive, but she couldn’t help feeling a little left out. Their afternoons of racing bikes and playing by the fountain were replaced with stories about karting championships and lap times.

One Saturday, she stood by the edge of the track, watching as Charles zipped around in his tiny kart, his face set in fierce concentration. Pascale stood beside her, cheering loudly every time Charles passed by.

“He’s really good,” Y/N admitted, though her voice was tinged with sadness.

“He is,” Pascale agreed, glancing down at her. “But he misses you, you know.”

Y/N looked up at her in surprise. “Really?”

Pascale nodded. “You’re his best friend. That doesn’t change just because he’s racing now.”

Her words comforted Y/N, but only for a little while.

A few weeks later, everything changed.

The fights between Y/N’s parents, once muffled whispers behind closed doors, had escalated into full-blown shouting matches. The walls of their home, which once echoed with laughter, now felt cold and thin, trembling under the weight of angry words. Plates clattered. Doors slammed. Y/N learned to tread lightly, her small frame slipping quietly through the spaces of their house as if trying to become invisible.

Late one night, she was jolted awake by the familiar sound of raised voices. The clock on her bedside table read 12:47 a.m. in glowing red numbers, but it could have been any time—this had become routine. Still clutching her stuffed rabbit, she hesitated before slipping out of bed, her bare feet making no sound on the floorboards.

At the top of the stairs, she crouched low, gripping the wooden railing as though it might steady her trembling hands. Below, the living room light flickered, casting long, restless shadows across the walls. Her father stood by the door, his face drawn and tired, while her mother paced back and forth, her voice sharp and brittle.

“I can’t do this anymore, David,” her mother said, her words breaking like glass.

“So, you’re running away? That’s your solution?” her father countered, his voice quieter but no less strained.

“I’m protecting her!” Y/N’s mother shouted, her hands shaking as she gestured toward the staircase. “She deserves stability, not this—this endless cycle of fighting.”

Y/N froze, her heart pounding in her chest. They were talking about her.

Her mother turned away from her father, her shoulders sagging as she began yanking open drawers and rummaging through cabinets. Moments later, a suitcase appeared on the couch, and Y/N watched as her mother began throwing clothes into it—shirts, dresses, anything within reach. Her movements were frantic, as if staying still might shatter her resolve.

Tears pricked at the corners of Y/N’s eyes as she tightened her grip on the stuffed rabbit, pressing it to her chest. Her father said something else—something quieter that she couldn’t hear—but her mother ignored him, zipping the suitcase with a finality that made Y/N’s stomach churn.

She wanted to run downstairs, to demand an explanation, but her feet felt glued to the spot.

The next morning, the house was eerily quiet. Y/N sat at the kitchen table, poking at a bowl of cereal that had long since gone soggy. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken words.

Her mother entered the room, her expression tired but determined. She sat down across from Y/N, reaching for her hand.

“Sweetheart, we need to talk,” her mother began, her voice gentler now.

Y/N looked up, her heart sinking as she saw the suitcase by the door. “What’s going on?”

Her mother sighed, brushing a stray hair from Y/N’s face. “We’re leaving. It’s... it’s for the best.”

“Leaving?” Y/N’s voice cracked, her hands gripping the edge of the table. “Where are we going?”

“To America,” her mother replied, her tone clipped but firm.

“America?” Y/N repeated, the word foreign and strange on her tongue. “Why? What about Dad? What about—” Her voice caught in her throat. “What about Charles?”

Her mother hesitated, the faintest flicker of guilt crossing her face. “This isn’t about them, Y/N. Sometimes we have to make hard choices to protect the people we love. You’ll understand one day.”

Y/N shook her head, her chest tightening. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave—”

“Honey.” Her mother’s voice softened, her hand reaching out to cup Y/N’s cheek. “I know this is hard. But we’ll be better off there. I promise.”

The promise felt hollow, but Y/N didn’t have the words to fight back.

The following day came too quickly, the hours slipping through Y/N’s fingers like grains of sand. The taxi idled outside their home, its engine humming softly as her mother double-checked the bags.

Y/N stood by the door, her small suitcase clutched in one hand, her other hand gripping the stuffed rabbit that had been her silent companion through all of this. Her father wasn’t there—he had left for work early, unable or unwilling to say goodbye.

As she climbed into the back seat of the taxi, Y/N pressed her face to the window, her breath fogging up the glass. Her heart ached with a heaviness she didn’t yet have the words to describe.

As the taxi pulled away, she caught sight of Charles standing outside his house, his arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed in confusion. He wore his favorite red T-shirt, the one he always wore on race days, and his hair was messy, as if he had just woken up.

“Charles,” Y/N whispered, her voice too quiet to reach him.

His expression shifted from confusion to something else—heartbreak. He took a step forward as if to chase after the taxi but stopped, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Y/N wanted to wave, to shout out the window and tell him she’d come back. But the lump in her throat was too heavy, and her hands refused to move. She could only watch as the familiar streets of Monaco blurred into the distance, Charles’s figure growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared entirely.

The weight of the moment pressed down on her chest, and for the first time, she truly understood what it meant to lose something precious.

And just like that, Y/N’s life in Monaco—and her friendship with Charles—was gone.

The streets of New York City were a symphony of noise and movement—taxis honked their horns in frustration, pedestrians hurried across streets, and the occasional siren blared in the distance. For twelve-year-old Y/N, the city's frantic energy was completely foreign. She had spent her entire life in the quiet beauty of Monaco, where everything moved a little slower, and the streets smelled of saltwater and sunshine. Here, the air was thick with the scent of exhaust fumes and hot dogs. The constant rush of people and cars felt like a constant reminder of how different her life had become.

Her mother had tried her best to make the transition as smooth as possible. They had found a modest apartment above a deli in the Upper West Side. The apartment was cramped, with peeling paint on the walls and creaky floors, but Y/N’s mother always tried to make it feel like home. She hung up brightly colored paintings, filled the shelves with books, and made sure the small kitchen was always stocked with ingredients to make Y/N’s favorite meals. Yet, no matter how many times Y/N tried to settle into her new life, there was a constant ache in her chest—the kind that came from a home she’d left behind.

At first, the culture shock was overwhelming. The city was alive with people from all over the world, but Y/N felt like a stranger in her own skin. School was different too. The other kids were loud and confident, their lives full of stories of places Y/N had never been. They spoke with an ease she envied, while she struggled to find the right words. The accent she had brought from Monaco stood out, and for the first time, she felt different, isolated.

But time, as it always does, began to heal the raw edges of her heart. The first time Y/N walked down the streets of Manhattan without feeling lost in the crowd, she realized she was slowly learning how to belong. She found solace in the quiet of the city's parks and in the rhythm of sketching designs in her notebook. Fashion had always been an escape for her. Whether she was creating something new from scraps or drawing intricate gowns on blank pages, it gave her a sense of purpose. And when the sewing machine hummed late into the night, it made the world outside her window fade away.

By the time she was sixteen, Y/N had started to make a name for herself. She took the subway to school every morning, sketchbook always in hand, where she studied the diverse styles around her—city folk in their sharp suits, the tourists who wore bold colors, and the older women who seemed to have perfected the art of elegant, understated chic. Each person was a new inspiration, a living canvas for her ideas.

It was then that Y/N’s designs started to catch the eye of local boutiques and independent designers. She worked part-time at a small fashion studio, sewing for local designers and creating custom pieces for clients. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a start. The more she worked, the more connections she made. She began hosting small fashion shows, her pieces catching the attention of semi-famous figures who loved her work. It wasn’t the kind of fame she had always dreamed of—being a designer whose name appeared in glossy magazines alongside Vera Wang or Marc Jacobs—but it was something.

Still, something was missing.

As much as she tried to bury the past, it kept resurfacing. Monaco lingered in the corners of her mind, a quiet presence that never truly left. On quieter evenings, when the city outside felt still and distant, Y/N would sit by the window, her thoughts drifting to Charles. She would trace the lines of the buildings with her eyes, remembering the way the sun would shine on the harbor in Monaco, casting golden reflections on the water. She could still see Charles’s smile, hear his laughter as they raced down the streets on their bikes. Sometimes, she would pull out the old pictures of the two of them, taken on the beach in Monaco, their faces covered with sand as they giggled at their own silliness.

She had written to him once, the year after they left, but the letter was returned. Her mother had torn it up without saying a word. “Some things are better left in the past,” she had said with a sadness Y/N didn’t understand at the time.

Her father had been another ghost in her life. He had passed away when Y/N was just twelve. Her mother kept the news from her for as long as she could, protecting Y/N from the heartbreak that followed. It wasn’t until a year later, when Y/N found the letter tucked into the back of a drawer, that the truth came to light. The letter had been from her father, a note he had written before he died. He had left Y/N some money and a few possessions, things he had meant to pass down to her. But it was more than just material things—it was a piece of the past Y/N hadn’t been ready to face.

For years, Y/N pushed the letter away. She had no desire to open it, no desire to look back at a life she had left behind. But when she turned twenty-two, everything began to change.

Her mother had grown ill—first it was a cough, then it was difficult breathing. The diagnosis came swiftly, and the doctors were blunt: cancer. Fatal. The world around Y/N seemed to collapse, her foundation shaken to its core. She watched as the woman who had once been full of life became frail and weak.

The last few months with her mother were a blur of hospital visits and whispered goodbyes. The woman who had been her protector, the one who had shielded her from the pain of their broken family, was now the one who needed saving. And Y/N couldn’t fix it.

A week before her mother’s death, in a quiet hospital room with the smell of antiseptic heavy in the air, her mother had handed her an envelope. “This letter is for you,” she said weakly, her hands trembling. “When I’m gone... open it. And make the promise you made to me.”

Y/N didn’t understand at the time. But she took the envelope, her fingers brushing against the paper as she wondered why it felt so heavy.

When her mother passed, Y/N felt as though the world had stopped turning. The days bled together, a monotonous blur of work, sadness, and restless nights. She poured herself into her designs, hoping to find some semblance of peace. But peace didn’t come. She wandered through her apartment, the quiet weighing on her, the memories of Monaco creeping into every corner of her mind.

It was a rainy afternoon in the fall, the kind of weather that made everything feel like it was shrouded in a veil of sadness, when she finally opened the letter.

the letter

My Dearest Y/N,

I don’t know how to begin this letter. There are so many things I should have said to you over the years, and I wonder if I ever really had the words to explain them. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life has a way of moving so quickly that you often miss the most important moments. This is one of those moments. So, I’ll say the things I’ve been meaning to say for so long, even if it’s too late now.

When we left Monaco, it wasn’t just because of the fighting, though that was certainly part of it. But I made a choice that day, a choice I thought was best for us both. I wanted to protect you from the pain, from the complexities of the life we had, from the things I couldn’t explain. I thought that if I took you away, if I removed you from the pressures of that world, you’d have a chance to grow up without the baggage of the past weighing you down. I was wrong.

You always did have a light in you, Y/N. A light that shone so brightly, I knew it would carry you far. When we arrived in New York, I thought you’d grow into someone different, someone independent and strong, someone who could build a life on her own. And you did. You are everything I ever hoped for you to be. But I realize now that there’s something missing. Something I didn’t give you, something I didn’t allow you to have because I was too afraid to face the truth.

Your father… he loved you, Y/N. So much more than I ever let you know. I know I kept you from him, from the life we built together in Monaco, and for that, I am truly sorry. But the truth is, I wasn’t protecting you. I was protecting myself. From the things that I couldn’t fix, from the dreams that slipped through my fingers, and from a relationship I knew was falling apart. I thought that by taking you away, I could spare you from the heartache that I was too afraid to face.

But, my love, I was wrong. And the one thing I regret most is that I never let you fully understand who you were—who you could be. You are so much more than what I let you see. Your father’s legacy, your heritage, they are a part of you that I denied, and I can’t take that back. I see now that you need to return to where it all began.

There are things in Monaco, things in your father’s world, that you need to find for yourself. Pieces of you that will make you whole again. I made a promise to him before we left, and it’s a promise I failed to keep. But now, it’s your turn to fulfill it.

Go back to Monaco, Y/N. Go back to your roots, to the home you left behind. I know it won’t be easy, and I know you’ve built a life here, but there is something waiting for you there, something that will make all of this make sense. I don’t know how to explain it, but you’ll understand when you’re there. The city, the harbor, the streets where you and Charles used to ride your bikes together—they all hold a piece of the puzzle.

Charles... I’m sorry, my darling. I know that you must think I kept him from you out of spite, but that wasn’t it. I just didn’t want you to get hurt. He was never a part of our plan, and I didn’t want you to feel torn between two worlds. But the truth is, he’s always been a part of you, Y/N. He always will be. You were both so young, so full of dreams, and I could see the bond between you two even back then. It was something beautiful, something pure. I know it’s been years, and I don’t know what the future holds for the two of you, but I know that you need to find your way back to him.

I don’t know if that means rekindling the friendship you once had or something else, but don’t let fear keep you from it. Don’t let fear keep you from facing what you’ve always known deep down. That part of you, that light, has always been tied to Monaco and to Charles.

I won’t be there to see you take this step, Y/N. But I’m asking you to do it for me, for both of us. I want you to finally understand what I couldn’t give you, to understand the reasons behind the choices I made. I want you to see that you are not just the girl who left Monaco— you are part of something bigger than what we’ve built here.

Please, take this step, Y/N. Go back to Monaco. Find what’s waiting for you. And if nothing else, find peace.

I love you more than words can express, and I always will.

With all my heart, Mom

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

taglist : @heluvsjappie @awritingtree @steamy-smokey @alex-wotton

#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #f1 x y/n #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fic #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 x you #formula 1 imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #cl16 x reader #cl16 imagine #jzprncess

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airybcby · 3 months ago

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જ⁀♡⊹｡° mind on the road, your dilated eyes

( rin itoshi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — i decided i didn't have enough series running and knew i needed to write an F1 AU :)

♡ word count — 1k

♡ content — rin itoshi x fem! reader, fem! reader, Formula 1 racing mentioned, F1 AU, F1 racer! rin, F1 engineer! reader, unrequited love, rin is still chasing after sae in this, mentions of a car crash, my very few years of watching F1 gave me a few ideas on the vocab to use, not proofread :)

♡ synopsis — A life where Rin Itoshi wasn’t consumed by rivalry, where you weren’t just his race engineer. But this life wasn’t that. And you knew, deep down, it never would be.

The roar of engines filled the air, bouncing off the grandstands of the Monaco circuit. The harbor shimmered under the Mediterranean sun, luxury yachts bobbing lazily in the distance. The race-day chaos was a familiar buzz, but it did nothing to calm Rin Itoshi’s restlessness.

He sat in his driver’s room, dressed in his fireproofs, staring blankly at his helmet on the table in front of him. For years, this time—these last few minutes before the grid—had been sacred to him. No one was allowed to interrupt. Not his PR team, not the pit crew. It was a rule everyone on the team knew better than to break.

Until you showed up.

You knocked lightly on the door and stepped inside without waiting for a response. “You ready, Itoshi?”

He looked up, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. “I was, until you came in.”

You smirked, unbothered. “We both know that’s not true. You’d already overthought everything twice by now.”

Rin didn’t respond, but the faintest twitch of his lips gave him away. This strange routine had become a tradition over the past season. Somehow, you were the only person who could step into his space without ruining his rhythm. In fact, since you’d joined the team, he’d gone out of his way to see you before every race.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence—a simple matter of logistics or convenience. But as time went on, you started to realize it wasn’t. Rin sought you out, even if he’d never admit it.

You adjusted the fit of his earpiece and handed him his gloves, your fingers brushing his as you did. “You’ve got this, Rin. Don’t let Sae get in your head today.”

The mention of his brother made his jaw tighten, his eyes flashing with something darker. “Easier said than done,” he muttered, pulling his gloves on.

You sighed. It was always like this. No matter how much effort you put into preparing him for the race, Sae was always there—a ghost Rin couldn’t outrun. It didn’t matter that you were the one who reminded him to drink water, who stayed up late analyzing telemetry, who knew how he liked his corner entries fine-tuned to the millimeter. You’d never be first in his eyes.

That spot belonged to Sae, and Sae alone.

The grid was chaos. Journalists swarmed the drivers as they took their places, cameras flashing and microphones thrust forward in search of soundbites. Rin ignored them all, climbing into his car with mechanical precision.

“Comms check,” you said over the radio as he settled into his seat.

“Loud and clear.”

“Good. Remember, you’re starting third. Don’t push too early—this is Monaco, not a track you can afford to gamble on.”

“I know.” His tone was clipped, but you could hear the undercurrent of tension.

You bit your lip, resisting the urge to say more. He was already on edge, his focus narrowing to a dangerous point. Sae sat on pole position, cool and untouchable as always. And Rin... Rin was chasing him, as he always had.

The lights went out, and the race began.

For the first 40 laps, Rin held steady. He kept a calculated distance from Karasu Tabito in second place, biding his time. You fed him updates through the radio, your voice calm and measured despite the growing knot in your stomach.

“You’re doing good, Rin. Karasu’s tires are degrading. Wait for your window.”

But you could feel his frustration building. Sae was still in the lead, his car slicing through the track of Monaco like it was made for him. Rin didn’t care about second place or podiums. He cared about beating Sae.

By Lap 60, the pressure cracked.

“Karasu’s slowing,” you warned as Rin closed the gap. “Wait until the straight to overtake—”

“I’m not waiting,” Rin snapped.

“Rin—”

He went for it.

In the tightest corner on the circuit, Rin dove to the inside line, attempting an impossible overtake. You watched, helpless, as his front wing clipped Karasu’s rear tire. The collision sent his car spinning out, slamming into the barriers with a sickening crunch.

Your breath caught in your throat. “Rin, respond! Are you okay?”

A pause, then static. Finally, his voice, low and rough: “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t.

The garage was quiet after the race, the energy sucked out of the room. The rest of the team gave Rin a wide berth as he sat on a crate in the corner, staring at the floor. His helmet sat discarded at his feet, his fireproofs smeared with dirt and grease.

You approached cautiously, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion. “Rin,” you said softly.

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to check on you.”

He looked up, his eyes dark and tired. “I don’t need you to baby me.”

“I’m not trying to baby you. I just... I care, okay?”

He snorted, the sound bitter. “Care about what? The points we lost? The standings?”

“No,” you said, your voice steady. “I care about you, Rin. But you’re too busy chasing Sae to see that.”

His expression hardened. “Don’t talk like you know me.”

“I do know you,” you shot back. “I know you’re your own worst enemy. I know you’d rather destroy yourself trying to beat Sae than accept that you’re enough as you are.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unforgiving. For a moment, you thought he might argue, but he didn’t. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable.

“Maybe,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“In another life, maybe.” His gaze softened, and for a fleeting second, he wasn’t Rin Itoshi, the prodigy, the rival, the shadow.

He was just Rin.

But the moment passed, and he stood, walking away without another word.

That night, as the paddock emptied and the last of the team packed up, you sat alone in the garage, staring at the remnants of his car. The metallic hum of the lights above was the only sound, a harsh reminder of the silence he’d left behind.

You thought about his words—about another life. A life where he wasn’t consumed by rivalry, where you weren’t just his race engineer, where the lines between you weren’t drawn so starkly.

But this life wasn’t that. And you knew, deep down, it never would be.

You'd do anything for Rin, in another life.

But this one isn’t yours to share.

And you had to learn how to live with that.

when the brain worms get me, i must do what they want :)

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

#★ · airybcbyy #airy posts #rin itoshi x reader #rin itoshi #blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #rin bllk #rin itoshi bluelock #blue lock x reader #rin x reader #rin itoshi blue lock #bllk rin #bllk rin itoshi #blue lock rin itoshi #blue lock rin

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communicationthroughlyrics · 8 months ago

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She Had Other Plans

You were a successful leader of a criminal empire. Your girlfriend was a successful tease, especially when you are halfway around the globe.

PT. 2

AN: I hate my mind sometimes. I just stew and stew and can't get an idea outta my head. So here is one of them. And this is my first time using one of those text message thingies, so yeah. And before yall ask, yes. there will be a part 2. 😂

TW: smut, daddy kink, strap-on sex, teasing, mentions of murder, mob!boss reader, uhhh yeah. Think that's it.

Word Count: 3.6K

In your line of work, you were away from home constantly. You traveled the world, helping to fuel people's darkest and most deceitful habits, for profit. Exploitation, power, and retribution were your specialties. Your heart had grown cold, at least to those on the outside, which was a necessary trait for your survival. You maintained your polished, playgirl public image well, a successful young business magnate, and you dabbled in philanthropy and charity to keep your reputation to the public clean.

Meanwhile, in the underbelly of society, you were ruthless, ensuring your legacy was cemented even if you departed this godforsaken world. You had climbed the ladder of power with precision, leaving a trail of the broken and betrayed beneath you. It was a world where trust was as fleeting as the morning dew, and everyone had a price. Those who worked for you closely would say you were calculating and charismatic, while those on the wrong side of the line knew you as being one step ahead, making your power felt through silence, vengeance, and detachment.

You had single-handedly become the largest mob boss in the United States, and that quickly spread into other countries, building relationships across the globe. Some were built on trust and loyalty, others on fear and mutual benefit.

Business had called you away to Malta, where you had to bury an up-and-coming threat to your growing kingdom and quell any unrest in your distant ranks. It had been a stressful week, albeit a successful one. When the phone call came across that ushered you away to the Mediterranean, you had been in the middle of…other business. Personal business. Having been teasing your girlfriend all day long, you had finally pushed the sexual tension to a head. The brunette had been panting and begging for you, dressed in lingerie that cost more than most people's cars.

When the call came through, you had left her with explicit expectations as to how she would need to handle her sexual fever in your absence. No touching. No teasing. Most importantly, no whining. That was your number one rule. Begging? Yes. Whining. No.

She had tried her damndest to get you to finish what you had started, but you knew this had to be taken care of expeditiously. So, you left a lace-clad goddess in your shared room while you literally left to murder someone. The following night, she began to push your buttons. She knew your limits, and experience taught her just how far she could push you to get a reaction, one that would benefit you both.

Wanda was 'conveniently' caught outside of your NYC penthouse, leaving in a barely-there skirt with a leather jacket and the pair of black Louboutins you had just bought her. The stocking-clad legs that were strutting out of your building, you knew should be wrapped around your waist, while you had her favorite strap buried to the hilt in her drenched pussy, or wrapped around your head as you mercilessly took out your workday frustrations on her.

However, you were 4,000 miles away, watching photos roll across your social media of the 'mystery woman' who had been able to bag you. You knew she was doing this on purpose, trying to flaunt what you walked out on 12 hours ago, leaving her a babbling, flustered, drenched mess.

Your hand tightened around the phone, your jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Your blood boiled with a mix of anger and desire. You had given her an order, but she had chosen to ignore it. The thought of her walking around like that, looking like that, for anyone else to see made you want to rip out the throat of every man on the street. You had been looking forward to coming home to her, to teaching her a lesson she'd never forget. But now, it looked like she had decided to bring the lesson to you.

She flew under the radar for the next two days, and you were thankful. You missed her greatly, and you wanted to show her just how much when you got home. You were willing to let the wardrobe choice from the other night slide, just to have a night of wanton passion in the penthouse, no punishment, no edging, no teasing.

She had other plans.

You were in the middle of a meeting when your phone started to buzz incessantly in your slacks. This was a meeting you had to focus on, but the constant vibration indication yet another text had been sent was slowly chipping away at your resolve to stay sharp for this meeting. You had told her not to contact you during work hours unless it was an emergency. Looking at some of the texts, you knew this was no emergency. No matter how desperate she made herself sound.

You growled at the phone, knowing she wouldn't respond to any more texts from you. She was playing a game of cat and mouse, and you had a boardroom full of sharks waiting for your undivided attention. You slammed the device down, your eyes narrowing as you turned back to the table. Shutting the phone off, you knew that when it turned back on, you would be greeted with a disaster.

The meeting couldn't end fast enough, you wanted to call her and put her in her place, but the meeting ran long, as you and your new alliance couldn't quite come to an agreement for goods and services rendered.

Finally, after what felt like hours, you had come to an agreement, so you quickly and curtly nodded in everyone's direction, gathering your suit jacket and flinging it over your shoulder as you swiftly made your way down the hall to your waiting car, turning your phone back on as you approached the outside doors.

You climbed into the back of the black Town Car, opening your messages to see some pictures from your girlfriend, taken at obscure angles- her clad in a new lingerie set. You knew it was new, they were a color she hadn't worn before, a navy blue number that stood out against her tanned skin. The photos had been sent with no accompanying text, which was unlike her. Usually, she'd write something teasing, begging for your attention. But these were just…there. They were like silent pleas for your dominance, your authority. You groaned at the images before you, each more provocative than the next.

What made your pulse spike was the Snapchat notification from her. She had just sent you a video. Then there was another. She continued to send you videos until she had reached a total of 11. Knowing these would not just be an ordinary snap, you slipped a headphone into your ear while you opened each video, in the order you received them. The first was her dancing on the pole you installed in the corner of your room, the familiar sound of 'Skin' playing in the background as she worked her hips and taunted you through the phone.

The last video was the final straw. Your most fundamental rule.

She sent you a video of her, sprawled out on the bed, her features were flush, and her chest was heaving. She was still clad in her racy new lingerie, and it was then you noticed it was crotchless. Your mouth went dry at the thought, as her hands made their way up and down her body. Your knuckles turned white as you gripped your phone, the scene before you becoming too much. She buried her fingers knuckle deep in her wet heat, pornographic moans coming through your earbud as you watched her pleasure herself.

You had told her explicitly, no touching herself. You had promised her that when you returned, you would take care of her needs. You had been looking forward to it, to watching her come apart in your arms. But here she was, in your own bed, disobeying you. The betrayal stung, but the sight of her was like a siren's call. You felt a storm of emotions, anger, desire, and something…more. It was a feeling that hadn't surfaced in a long time, something you weren't quite familiar with.

You boarded your jet and tried to calm the storm that was brewing deep within you for the 13-hour flight home. The images of her playing with herself, the thought of her ignoring your command, it was all you could think about. You felt a mix of anger, arousal, and a hint of something else that you hadn't felt in years. She was a challenge, and you hadn't had one a challenge in a very long time.

You tried to distract yourself, completing some work on your phone, trying to read articles about New York politics, but nothing could distract you from the inferno that was building up inside you. Each passing moment brought with it a new wave of desire, the images of her writhing in pleasure burned into your retina. You had to admit, she knew exactly how to push your buttons, and she had just pushed the biggest one of all. You slammed your phone down in frustration, crossing your arms as you peered out the window to the clouds below. After three hours of 'distraction', you finally fell into a restless, lustful slumber.

The flight seemed to drag on forever, but when you landed at JFK, you were more than ready to deal with her. You texted her, telling her to be home, naked, and waiting for you. You didn't care if she had plans or not, she'd learn to prioritize your commands. You had a feeling she was going to be a handful, but that was what you liked about her.

You stalked over towards the waiting convoy of blacked-out vehicles that were waiting to take you home. The sound of your dress shoes echoed through the private lobby to your elevator, as you impatiently waited for the cabled car to come down from the top floor, watching the numbers descend from floor 98 to you, on the third garage floor.

As you stepped into the elevator, you could feel the anticipation building. You were going to show her exactly who was in charge, and what happens when she breaks the cardinal rule. The doors closed with a satisfying 'ping', and you ascended to your penthouse, your mind racing with scenarios of what you would do when you saw her. The elevator doors parted, revealing the sleek, marble floors in your home, the baby grand piano tucked in the corner, and the twinkling New York skyline a backdrop to what carnal acts were about to take place. You turned on your heel, making your way to the furthest room in the house, your bedroom. As you made your way down the corridor to the bedroom, you noticed the doors shut, but a glow came from underneath them.

Your heart rate quickened, your hand hovered over the doorknob, and you took a deep breath before pushing the door open. She lay on the bed, huddled to one side, peacefully sleeping with a book in her hands. She looked innocent, but you knew better. You strode over to the bed, the floorboards giving a slight creak under your weight, but she didn't stir. Carefully, you plucked the book away from her, running your thumb over her nose to wake her up.

"Ragazza monella," you spoke softly, your pent-up frustration leeching into your normally collected voice.

Her eyes snapped open, revealing the deep pools of green that had captivated you from day one. She looked up at you with a lazy smile, not a hint of guilt in her gaze. "You're home," she purred, stretching her limbs like a cat in the sun.

"I see you couldn't wait for me," you said, your voice thick with unspoken accusation as you threw your phone to the side.

Her smile didn't waver. "I've missed you," she replied, her voice a low, seductive purr that sent a shiver down your spine. She sat up, letting the blanket pool around her waist, the hoodie she was wearing you instantly recognized as one of yours.

"I gave you an order, Wanda," you said, your voice low and menacing.

"And I chose to ignore it," she replied, her eyes never leaving yours.

Her audacity was like a drug, and you felt yourself growing more and more crazed at the sight of her. She knew the consequences of her actions, yet she reveled in them. "You know what happens when you don't follow orders," you growled, your hand sliding under the soft fabric of the hoodie to cup her cheek.

Her smile grew wider, and she leaned into your touch. "Do I?" she challenged, her voice a breathy whisper.

With a swift move, you had her pinned down on the bed, the fabric of the hoodie riding up to expose her lingerie-clad body. "You're going to regret this," you warned, your voice dark with desire.

"Am I?" she questioned, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Your hand trailed down her body, tracing the curve of her waist to the apex of her thighs. "You're already wet for me," you murmured, feeling the dampness between her muscular, toned thighs.

"I'm always wet for you, Papi," she emphasized your pet name, knowing how much you adored her calling you that.

Your eyes narrowed at her insolence, and you felt your ego swell with a mix of anger and desire. "You know the rules," you reminded her, your voice a mix of steel and seduction.

"And you know I love to break them," she whispered, her voice a seductive dance in the quiet room.

You grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head, your grip firm but not painful. "This is your last warning," you murmured, your eyes dark with lust and promise of punishment.

Her eyes searched yours, looking for any signs of relenting, but she found none. Instead, she felt a thrill run through her body. This was what she had been craving, what she had missed in your absence. The power play, the delicious tension between your dominance and her submission.

"What's it going to be?" she asked, her voice a challenge wrapped in velvet.

Without a word, you yanked the hoodie over her head, leaving her in just the new lingerie set. The room was filled with the sound of fabric tearing as you ripped away the crotchless part of her underwear, exposing her glistening folds to the cool air. She gasped at the sudden exposure, her body arching into yours.

"You're going to learn your place," you said, your voice a low rumble. You leaned down, your mouth capturing hers in a bruising kiss that claimed ownership over her. She moaned into your mouth, her body responding instinctively to your touch, her legs wrapping around your waist as she pulled you closer.

The kiss grew more intense, your tongue invading her mouth, demanding submission. She met your dominance with her own passion, her teeth grazing your bottom lip, drawing a bead of blood. The taste of it made you growl, and you deepened the kiss, your hand sliding down to squeeze her ass.

Finally, you pulled away, breathing heavily. "You're going to get what you asked for," you warned, your eyes dark with lust.

Without another word, you flipped her over onto her stomach, her ass in the air, begging for your attention. You smacked her once, watching as the skin turned pink. She moaned into the pillow, her hips moving back, silently asking for more. You didn't disappoint, your hand coming down again and again, leaving a pattern of red across her skin. Each slap echoed through the room, punctuating the sound of your heavy breaths and her whimpers of pleasure.

You felt your own need growing, and you were glad that you had opted to change into her favorite suit with a strap-on surprise. You knew she was close, her body shaking with each smack, and you couldn't wait to watch her greedy pussy swallow your new toy whole. You slid your hand between her legs, finding her wet and ready. You whispered, "You're going to come for me now," and thrust two fingers inside her, curling them in a way that made her scream into the pillow.

Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her body convulsing around your hand. You didn't stop, though, continuing to fuck her with your fingers until she was begging for mercy. Only when she was trembling did you pull away, standing up to remove your clothes.

When you were naked, you climbed onto the bed, the new dildo standing at attention. "You've had your fun," you said, your voice a low growl. "Now it's my turn." Her eyes widened at the sheer girth of your chosen method of punishment.

"I…I don't think that will fit," she whined, her lust-blown eyes boring straight into yours.

"Oh, it will. You remember your safeword, correct?" you nibbled down her neck as you settled between her legs.

"Yes," she moaned, her back arching against you.

"What is it?"

"Cl…clementine," she stuttered, her body wiggling and writhing beneath you.

You nodded as you slammed into her without preamble, her body accepting you with ease. She screamed your name, her legs tightening around your waist as you began to move. Each thrust was punctuated with a smack to her ass, leaving her skin stinging and her pussy clenching around you. You knew she liked it rough, she was addicted to the pain, but you were going to give her more than she had bargained for tonight.

This was your domain, and she had forgotten her place. You were going to remind her, over and over again, until she was nothing but a quivering mess beneath you. Until she understood that no matter how much she tested you, she would always be yours to command, to punish, to pleasure.

You slammed into her, the sound of your hips slapping against her filling the room. The dildo stretched her to her limits, each inch driving deeper until she was crying out for you to stop. But you didn't. You knew she could take it, knew she craved the pain that came with your passion. The bulge from the tip of the toy poked out her abdomen with every thrust, you pressed down on her stomach where it was appearing, causing her to arch further into your touch.

Her moans grew louder, more desperate, as you picked up the pace. You watched the way her body moved underneath you, the way her breasts bounced with each thrust, and the way her ass cheeks clapped together. You felt yourself getting closer, your strokes becoming more erratic. You reached around, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at you. "Who do you belong to?" you demanded, your voice a low growl.

"You," she whispered, her eyes glazed over with pleasure.

"Say it louder," you ordered, giving her another smack on the ass.

"I belong to you!" she screamed, her voice hoarse from the moans that had escaped her mouth.

"Beg to cum, amore," you growled in her ear, nibbling down the shell.

"Fuck," she moaned out, her eyes briefly fluttering open before screwing shut again.

"Not until you beg," you reminded her, your voice like a whip crack in the quiet of the room. You could feel your orgasm building, the muscles in your thighs tightening with each powerful thrust. Her cries grew more desperate, her hips moving back to meet yours, pushing herself onto the dildo with a fervor that was almost painful to watch.

"Please," she finally begged, her voice breaking. "I need to come."

You smirked, feeling the power surge through you. "That's all you got, baby?" You taunted, increasing the speed and force of your thrusts. "After all that, the teasing, the videos, this is how you show me you miss me? This is how you show me that you need Papi to make you feel good?" She whined and squirmed beneath you, her body shaking with the effort of holding back her climax. "Beg harder," you whispered, leaning down to bite her earlobe.

Her voice grew more frantic. "Ple…please, Papi," she gasped. "I need to come, I need you to make me come."

"You can do better than that," you grabbed ahold of one of her legs, pulling it over your shoulder as you continued the relentless assault on her swollen, leaking pussy. You leaned down, resting your other hand on her throat, gently applying pressure as you picked up your pace. "I said to beg for it, so fucking beg for it," you whispered, your breath hot against her skin.

Her eyes snapped open, the green orbs locking onto yours, filled with a mix of anger and desperation. "Fuck me harder," she pleaded, her voice strained. "Make me cum, Papi."

The sound of her demanding sent you over the edge, and you slammed into her, the erratic thrusts as you came only spurring her pleasure further. You felt her pussy tighten around the dildo, her walls pulsing as she climaxed hard, her body shaking beneath you. You didn't stop until she was limp, her cries of pleasure turning into breathless gasps.

You continued to work the toy into her, slowly building her back up.

"I didn't give you permission, amore mio," you looked down at her, panting as her chest heaved.

"I know," she panted back, "but I had to make sure you knew how much I missed you."

You couldn't help but smirk at her audacity. She knew how much power she held over you, how much she could push you. "You're going to pay for that," you whispered, your voice a dark promise.

Her eyes lit up, and she bit her bottom lip, egging you on. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

#communicatethrulyrics #wlw fanfic #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda fanfic #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff x female reader

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blueiscoool · 1 year ago

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Three Roman Graves Uncovered in Portugal

Three burials dating to the 5th or 6th century AD have been unearthed in the ancient Roman city of Ossónoba in Faro, southern Portugal.

The Ossónoba’s first archaeological evidence dates back to the 4th century B.C., when the Phoenicians settled in the Western Mediterranean. The city was then called Ossónoba From the 2nd century B.C. until the 8th A.D. the city was under Roman and Visigoth dominance being afterwards conquered by the Muslims in 713.

A team of archaeologists from ERA Arqueologia discovered ancient Roman structures and the remains of a man, woman, and child while conducting excavations over a 5,000 square meter area that will eventually house a real estate development.

The excavations, which took place before a construction project, revealed the grave of a man whose skeleton was complete and who would have been between 39 and 45 years old, as well as a young woman under the age of 25, and a baby who would have been no more than six months old, according to archaeologist Francisco Correa.

Francisco Correia, the project’s head archaeologist, said in a statement that the discoveries were made in an old truck repair workshop and are believed to date from the 5th or 6th century.

The tombs appear to have been looted in the past to steal “small bracelets, necklaces, and rings,” according to anthropologist Cláudia Maio. The tombs indicate that the people may have had “some economic status” as they were not simply placed in open graves but instead buried in carefully built graves.

The proximity of the three people’s graves seems to indicate that they were family members, though the team cannot be certain of that. “But we cannot say anything for sure,” the anthropologist said.

To learn more, the researchers hope to be able to provide more precise answers through DNA tests and isotopic analysis techniques used to determine population movements and dietary habits from chemical traces in ancient human remains.

This latest archaeological discovery did not come as a surprise to archaeologists, who had already led similar works which resulted in the discovery of a Roman game artifact believed to date back to the first century AD in 2020.

“We know that we are in an area with archaeological potential where there is a 17th-century convent (of Santo António dos Capuchos) to the west, and to the east lies the area where the mosaic of the Ocean God (Deus Oceano), now a national treasure, was found,” he said.

What did come as a surprise to archaeologists was the location of the tombs.

“Based on previous studies, this would have been an area that was possibly residential or more linked to industrial activities. There are many traces of salterns. Largo da Madalena would have been the entrance to the urban area of the city of Ossónoba. The identified graves are in the Figuras area, near Teatro Lethes, close to the Ermida de São Sebastião and the Pavilion of Escola D. Afonso III. This area is almost within the urban fabric,” the archaeologist explained, adding that this illustrates both the “growth and decline of Ossónoba.”

The graves of the man and the woman “were sealed with limestone slabs,” believed to be reused parts from “some of the most emblematic buildings that would have been here in the area,” he believes.

According to the project manager of ERA Arqueologia, who was co-responsible for the work, in addition to the graves, hundreds of small pieces were also discovered which suggest that there may also have been a mosaic there.

The researchers also recovered Roman artifacts in the area, including ceramics, bone dice, nails, pins, a spoon, possible evidence of a dye factory, and coins minted during the reign of Constantine the Great, between A.D. 306 and 337.

Cover Photo: Roman mosaic of the god Oceanus, part of the ancient city of Ossónoba, the modern town of Faro, in Portugal.

By Leman Altuntaş.

#Three Roman Graves Uncovered in Portugal #Roman city of Ossónoba in Faro #ancient grave #ancient tomb #ancient artifacts #archeology #archeolgst #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #roman history #roman empire #roman art

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useless-catalanfacts · 6 months ago

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Just dropping by to let anyone from the world (not Spain) know that after the catastrophe in Valencia, our dipshit state has taken hundreds of volunteers in buses to clean SHOPS AND ESTABLISHMENTS and that the people have revolted against the mere idea. Only the people save the people, dude. Stupid ass capitalist society istg...

Many people got trapped because employers (Mercadona, IKEA, etc) made them go to work even when there was the alert for extreme weather. They have blood on their hands and they should face legal consequences for it.

Same for the government which had the information from the weather stations and refused to follow the alert early enough, president Mazón even went out to say not to worry because the weather would be calm in the evening (when the worse was coming), and this comes after having run the electoral campaign on deleting "waste of money" bodies like the emergency unit (the first of said bodies that they got rid of after winning the election was precisely the emergency unit), and allowing to build everywhere without geographical consideration. It's not like we didn't know, this happens every so often because of the Mediterranean weather, we have texts about it since Ancient Roman times, Medieval times, Early Modern period, 19th and 20th centuries, and we know it's getting worse with climate change. Measures could have been taken to minimize the damage, but the Mazón government only took measures to make it worse.

I've been seeing people say this: The DANA damages, the government kills. The companies should be added as well.

#actualitat #país valencià #dana

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23victoria · 11 months ago

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𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸𝚗 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚘

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚘𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚙𝚒𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒 𝚡 𝚏𝚎𝚖!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟷.𝟸𝚔

✾ 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝚢/𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛!

❁ 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎! 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏!

✿ 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎: 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛! 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢! 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐!! ꨄ

The sun glistens over the Mediterranean, casting a warm golden hue over the streets of Monaco. The narrow, winding roads are alive with excitement, the air thick with the hum of engines and the palpable thrill of anticipation. You are here for your first Formula 1 race, invited by your friend Layla. The energy of the crowd, the beauty of the yachts docked in the harbor, and the historic charm of the city-state enchant you.

As you make your way through the bustling paddock, you notice a tall, striking brown haired man in a McLaren suit. Oscar Piastri, his name tag reads. His eyes catch yours for a brief moment, and you see a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps—before you continue on your way. Little do you know, he’s been completely captivated by you.

Oscar watches you disappear into the crowd, his heart racing faster than it does on the track. He’s smitten, enthralled by your beauty and the way you seem to light up the space around you. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he refocuses on the race ahead. But throughout the preparations, your face lingers in his mind, a sweet distraction.

The race begins with the usual roar of engines and the eager cheers of the crowd. The winding streets of Monaco prove as challenging as ever, each corner and straight demanding the utmost precision. Oscar finds his rhythm, pushing his McLaren to its limits. Every now and then, thoughts of you slip in, urging him to perform at his best.

Lap after lap, the race unfolds with gripping intensity. Leclerc leads the race, closely followed by Verstappen, while Oscar holds his own in third. The streets blur into a high-speed ballet of color and sound. Oscar’s focus never wavers, and as the final laps approach, he knows he’s got a shot at the podium.

The checkered flag waves, signaling the end of a grueling but exhilarating race. Charles takes first place, Max in second, and Oscar crosses the line in third. The podium finish is a triumph, but as he climbs the steps and looks out over the crowd, all he can think about is finding you.

The podium ceremony is a whirlwind of the crowd cheering, trophies, and champagne. Oscar accepts his third-place trophy with a smile, but his eyes scan the crowd, searching for you. As the national anthems play and the crowd cheers, he wonders if you’re still here, somewhere among the thousands of fans.

Once the ceremony concludes, Oscar makes his way through the paddock, his heart set on finding you. Luck seems to be on his side, as he spots you near one of the hospitality suites, talking to a Mercedes engineer named Layla. Taking a deep breath, he approaches just as Layla leaves, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Hi there,” he says, his voice more confident than he feels. “I’m Oscar.”

You turn, surprised but pleased to see him. “Hello, Oscar. I’m Y/N.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, a smile breaking across his face. “I noticed you before the race started earlier, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to you, now that it ended, I just wanted to say hi.”

You smile back, feeling a flutter of excitement. “It’s nice to meet you too, Oscar. This is my first race. Layla invited me, and it’s been quite an experience.”

Oscar’s eyes light up with genuine interest. “Your first race? What did you think about it? Did you have fun?”

“It was incredible,” you reply. “The atmosphere, the speed, the sound of the engines—it’s all so fascinating. Though, I have to admit, I don’t know much about Formula 1.”

He chuckles, his nervousness easing. “That’s okay. There’s a lot to learn, but it sounds like you’re enjoying it. And I have to say, you picked a great race to attend. Monaco is something special.”

You nod, glancing around at the glamorous surroundings. “It really is. I’m glad I got to experience it.”

Oscar hesitates for a moment, then gathers his courage. “Are you busy later? I’d love to show you more of Monaco, if you’re interested.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you can’t help but smile. “I’d love that.”

“Great,” he says, relief evident in his voice. “Can I get your number? I’ll text you the details of where we’re going.”

You exchange numbers, and Oscar promises to text you in a few. As he walks away, he feels a surge of happiness, the promise of the evening ahead leaving a warm feeling throughout his body.

Later, as the sun begins to set, you receive a message from Oscar: “Be ready by 6. I’ll pick you up from your hotel.”

Excitement buzzes through you as you get ready, choosing a casual yet stylish outfit. When 6 o’clock rolls around, you’re waiting in the lobby, a mix of nerves and anticipation coursing through you. Oscar arrives right on time, looking relaxed and happy to see you.

“Ready to go?” he asks, his smile infectious.

“Absolutely,” you reply, matching his grin.

He takes you to a charming seaside restaurant, the perfect spot for a relaxed dinner. The view is breathtaking, the sky painted in hues of orange and pink as the sun sets over the water. As you sit down, you can’t help but feel that this evening is going to be something special.

Over dinner, the conversation flows easily. Oscar asks about your hobbies, and you tell him about your love for baking, painting, and your other hobbies. He listens intently, genuinely interested in everything you have to say.

“I love to surf,” he shares when it’s his turn. “Growing up in Australia, it was something I did all the time. And, of course, racing is a huge part of my life.”

You smile apologetically. “I have to admit, I didn’t know much about you before today. I’m still learning about Formula 1.”

Oscar laughs, shaking his head. “That’s okay. It gave me a great excuse to talk to you.”

You laugh with him, the tension of the day melting away. The conversation continues, light and easy, as you both share stories and experiences. The food is delicious, but it’s the company that makes the evening truly memorable.

After dinner, Oscar suggests a walk along the beach. The air is cool, the sound of the waves soothing as you stroll along the shoreline. The sky has darkened, stars beginning to twinkle overhead.

“This place is beautiful,” you say, gazing out at the water.

“It really is,” Oscar agrees. “I’m glad we came here.”

As you walk, the conversation turns more personal. You talk about your families, your dreams, your fears. Oscar’s openness and warmth make you feel comfortable, and you find yourself sharing more than you usually would.

Eventually, you find a spot on the sand, sitting down with your feet in the water. The waves lap gently at your toes, the night sky stretching endlessly above.

“I really enjoyed tonight,” you say, looking over at Oscar. “It was...unexpected, but in the best way.”

“I feel the same,” he replies, his gaze meeting yours. “This was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time.”

You sit in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of the ocean a soothing backdrop. There’s a sense of something beginning, a connection that feels both new and familiar.

“I’d love to do this again sometime,” Oscar says quietly, breaking the silence.

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through you. “I’d like that too.”

#ꨄ࿎victoria’s writings!࿎ꨄ #formula 1 #formula one #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri x fem!reader #dividers by @cafekitsune #oscar piastri fluff #op81 #op81 x reader #op81 fic #op81 fluff #op81 x you

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37sommz · 5 months ago

Text

❁ : monaco . . .

✼. masterlist — taglist — request. ✼. genre: fluff & angst. ✼. wc: 7.1k.

all the glitz and glamor of monaco drives everyone on the grid a bit mad. amid revelations and setup failures, the redbulls seem to be the most mad.

✼. warnings: language, mclaren in general. ✼. notes: none :)

000.⠀⠀MAY 26, 2022 › Monaco

The custom McLaren-branded jacket practically glimmered against Michaela's skin as she strode towards the press conference room. It was media day in iconic Monaco and the Monegasque sun warmed her skin as she pulled her sunglasses over her squinting brown eyes. The smell of the Mediterranean ocean spray filled the air, a familiar scent that reminded her of the value of a victory here in Monte Carlo.

Inside, the press room buzzed with excitement. Photographers snapped away as the drivers took their seats. The lights were as hot as the competition between the teams, and the anticipation was palpable. The press conference was a dance of allusions and vague hints, each driver revealing just enough to keep the audience intrigued without giving away their strategy for the weekend.

Michaela remained poised, her smile never wavering, as she took her seat between Lewis and Alex. The Williams driver's smile was bright as he watched his friend collapse onto the couch with an exaggerated huff. Lewis' attention was occupied by the phone in his hand though he gently hummed a soft greeting to the Australian to his left.

"You're late," Alex spoke as he leaned over to her. His smile didn't quite reach his tired eyes, the same way hers didn't quite reach her voice when she replied, "Only fashionably so." The room filled with light laughter, a welcome release of the tension that seemed to hang in the air like the ever-present pressure of performance.

"Daniel's not even here yet, why're you attacking me?" She continued, gesturing to the empty space to Lewis' right.

The British driver looked up from his phone, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Someone's eager to start the party." He joked as he finally pocketed his phone. Michaela was left without a chance to reply as the other Australian on the grid ran into the room, his press officer hot on his tail. His apologies fell on deaf ears as the photographers clicked away at a chance to capture his brilliant smile.

The conference began, and the questions rolled in, each more insightful than the last. They touched on everything from car upgrades to personal lives, but not once did they pry into the strained dynamics at McLaren or even Alpine for that matter. It was a welcome change, but the feeling of the unusual civility of the press left Michaela with a nagging suspicion that it was all a facade, a prelude to the storm that was to come once the racing weekend truly began.

As the conference drew to a close, Lewis leaned over to her, his smile genuine yet tinged with curiosity. "Dinner tonight?" He asked casually, and she felt the weight of his gaze, knowing that he had something he wanted to discuss.

It was far from an odd request. Lewis and Michaela had become quite close in the four seasons she had been racing in Formula 1. But she was aware of the look in his eyes that seemed to scream 'I know something'. Michaela had admittedly avoided Lewis since their out of character interaction in Bahrain which left her believing he knew more than he let on about her newfound ease around Jenson.

"Alright, but I'm not letting you pick the restaurant," she quipped, trying to keep the conversation light as they stood up. Lewis chuckled, "Fair enough. How about my place?" He offered, his eyes shimmering with mischief.

Michaela felt her heart jump a beat. This was it. The moment she had both dreaded and anticipated. But she played it cool, nodding in agreement as they stepped out of the conference room. The paddock was a whirlwind of activity, team members darting around, setting up for the weekend's events. The sound of engines roared in the background, a song of power and precision that was music to her ears.

As they approached the hospitality suites, she could help but feel as if the stares were more pronounced, the whispers louder. It was as if the paddock had turned into a stage, and she was the main act. She pushed the unsettling thoughts aside, reminding herself that paranoia would only distract her from her peace, focusing on the dinner ahead instead. Maybe this was her chance to finally tell Lewis the truth and get his advice on how to handle the looming media circus.

The evening rolled around, and she found herself at Lewis' place, a stunning villa nestled in the hills overlooking sparkling Monte Carlo. The smell of the sea mixed with the aroma of something delicious coming from the kitchen. They greeted each other with warm hugs, and she followed him through the effortlessly expensive interior to where they would be cooking.

Michaela's nerves simmered as they chopped vegetables and sautéed tofu for their vegan stir-fry. Lewis had always been the kind to read the room, and she could feel his curiosity about to spill over. "So..." she drew out the question, trying to sound casual as she tossed ingredients into the wok.

"So..." Lewis echoed, his eyes darting up to meet hers with a knowing smile. "This boyfriend of yours. Anything you want to tell me?" He stirred the food, his lips quirking up in a playful grin that didn't quite hide the seriousness of his question.

Michaela's hands paused over the chopping board, a carrot suspended in mid-air. She took a deep breath, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety. "Not necessarily..." She hummed, attempting to keep her cool as she continued to chop.

Lewis raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for her to continue. She felt his gaze on her, the tension in the kitchen thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, she set the carrot aside and turned to him. "Okay," she sighed, "You're obviously onto something. What's going on?"

He chuckled, "I've just noticed some... interesting changes in your behavior. And I've heard some whispers that might just be the wind, or might be something more."

Michaela's eyes widened. "What kind of whispers?"

"You know how this paddock is," he said, tossing the tofu into the sizzling wok. "Everyone knows everyone's business."

Her heart raced, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She didn't know whether to be upset or relieved that the secret was out. She decided to be brave and face it head-on. "Okay, I'll tell you. But promise me, it doesn't go beyond these walls."

Lewis nodded, his curiosity piqued. "I promise."

Michaela took a deep breath, her heart racing. "It's Jenson," she blurted out, the words slipping from her lips with surprising ease. She watched as Lewis' expression morphed from mild interest to shock and then into a knowing smile.

"I knew it," he said, turning down the heat on the wok and leaning against the counter. "You've been dodging my questions about your love life for over a year now."

Michaela felt a blush creeping up her neck as she stirred the vegetables, trying to keep her cool. "Because you're a nosy bitch, Lewis Hamilton."

Lewis' laugh filled the kitchen, a sound that had become increasingly warm and familiar to Michaela's ears. "Fair point," he conceded, "But I wouldn't have had to be nosy if you would've just told me, Michaela Sommers."

Michaela couldn't help but laugh along, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. "You're right. But we wanted to keep it private. To figure us out before the media did." She glanced at him, her smile tentative.

"I get it," Lewis said, nodding understandingly. "It's a tough situation, especially with little Myla in the mix." He paused for a moment, stirring the food with more thought than usual. "But you know how this sport is. Secrets have a way of getting out."

Michaela nodded, feeling the weight of his words. She had seen firsthand how quickly rumors could spread through the paddock. But she had also seen how people respected each other's privacy. "I know," she said, her voice surprisingly stable. "We've been careful about it. Trying to give Myla time to adjust to this new thing in her life, you know?"

Lewis nodded, his gaze thoughtful as he flipped the tofu. "And how is she taking it?"

"Myla?" Michaela's voice softened at the mention of the little girl. "She's fantastic. She's so bright and full of life, I adore her, Lew. And Jenson's amazing with her. They're so in tune with each other, it's so sweet to see him like that."

Lewis's smile grew as he listened to the affection in her voice. "I think the first time I met Myla was maybe 2017," he hummed, adding a batch of final touches to the dishes as he plated them. "She was only two but had more personality than half the drivers did even in their thirties."

Michaela chuckled, taking a plate from him. "And she still does," she said, sitting down at the sleek dining table that overlooked the twinkling city landscape. The silence between them grew, filled with the occasional clink of silverware on porcelain as they enjoyed their meal.

"So," Lewis started, after a pause that was long enough to be uncomfortable but not awkward, "What's the plan now?"

Michaela took a bite of the stir-fry as she considered his question. "We were hoping to wait until the season ends," she said, chewing thoughtfully. "But if it's going to come out now, then I guess we'll have to deal with it."

Lewis leaned back in his chair, his plate pushed aside slightly. "It's your call," he said, his gaze serious. "But I think it's better if you control the narrative. Keep that line between your personal and professional life clear."

Michaela nodded, swirling the last of the water in her glass. "I know," she murmured. "But it's not just about us. It's Myla too. We don't want this to take over her life. Her mum just got remarried this past August, and she's still getting used to having two new parental figures in her life."

Lewis leaned in, his eyes understanding. "I get it," he said firmly. "But if it's going to come out, it's better that it's on your terms. You guys have a good relationship, and it's clear that you're happy together. The media can't tear down something so strong, not if you make it clear that you're together for good."

Michaela nodded, taking a deep breath and letting his words sink in. "I already know they're gonna throw the distraction card to try to discredit the relationship. And I'm sure the age difference will be a hot topic too." She laughed bitterly.

"Michaela," Lewis said, his tone turning serious, "You can't let that get to you. You know the truth, Jense knows the truth, and Myla knows the truth. That's all that matters."

Michaela nodded, feeling the tension ease slightly. "You're right," she said, taking a sip of her water. "Honestly, I'm ready to be able to talk about it openly. It's just... I don't want to jinx it. We're happy, and I want to keep it that way."

Lewis reached across the table and placed a reassuring hand on her arm. "You will. Beata's a PR genius, as long as she can guide you through this, you'll be alright."

Michaela nodded, feeling a bit more at ease. Before they could move on to the topic of tomorrow's race, her phone buzzed with a call from Jenson. Lewis gave her an amused look, and she shrugged, answering the call and hitting the speaker button.

"Hey, babe," she answered, trying to keep her voice light. "You're on speaker with the nosiest man on the grid."

Jenson's laughter filled the room, and she could almost see the smile on his face. "Lewis Hamilton," he greeted, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. "How's the old man doing?"

Lewis chuckled. "I'm feeling very informed, JB. Thanks for asking."

Michaela rolled her eyes, the tension in the room dissipating. She could feel the warmth of Lewis' smile, grounding her as Jenson's voice filled the room. "So, what's on the agenda for tonight?" Jenson asked.

"He knows, Jense," Michaela responded, her voice carrying a hint of relief. "We talked about it."

Jenson's laughter continued, and she could sense his curiosity peaking. "Alright," he said, "What's the plan now?"

Michaela looked over at Lewis, who nodded his encouragement. She took a deep breath. "Well, we were thinking of waiting until the season ends, but it seems the universe has other plans." She paused, a smirk playing on her lips. "But I've got a pretty good PR team, and a boyfriend who's been on the front page of the tabloids for much worse."

Lewis chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, the stories I could tell," he teased, and Jenson's laughter grew richer.

"Keep them to yourself, please," Michaela shot back, though she couldn't help but grin. "I've had enough of you for one night."

Lewis' laughter bellowed through the room as he took a seat beside her. "Alright, alright," he conceded. "But you guys have my support, no matter what happens. I'm really happy for you two."

Michaela felt a warmth spread through her chest as she listened to her boyfriend and their friend banter back and forth. It was a strange dynamic, but it was theirs, and she wouldn't trade it for anything.

000.⠀⠀MAY 27, 2022 › Monaco

The next morning rose with the sun as Michaela prepared herself to officially kick off the race weekend with the first practice session. She walked towards the McLaren garage under the late morning sun, feeling the weight of the secret she'd been carrying around for so long slowly lifting off her shoulders.

Michaela climbed into her cockpit, the familiar sound of the engine roaring to life enveloping her. She took a deep breath and focused on the task at hand. The Monaco Circuit was notorious for its tight streets and challenging corners, and she needed to be at the top of her game if she was going to keep up with the Ferraris and Red Bulls that had been dominating the season so far.

During the first practice session, she gently pushed the McLaren to get a sense of its limits, feeling the tires grip the asphalt as she sped around the iconic track. The session was rough, the car not responding to her inputs as seamlessly as she'd have liked, but she kept her cool, relaying the issues to her engineer calmly. Despite the car's troubles, she managed to keep her times respectable, but she knew she had her work cut out for her.

After the session, she climbed out of the cockpit, her fireproof suit sticking to her sweat-damp skin. Her engineer, Rob, met her with a furrowed brow, already discussing potential adjustments with the team. She nodded along, trying her best to keep calm instead of panicking on the engineer.

"Michaela," he said, holding up a hand, "Take a deep breath. We'll get it sorted."

She nodded, trying to shake off the frustration. "I know, I know," she said, taking a sip of water. "It's just... Monaco. It's so much pressure."

Rob nodded, understanding her stress. "I'll talk to the team. We'll work on it." He patted her shoulder before walking away to consult with the others.

Michaela took a moment to herself that was cut short as Zak approached her cautiously. "Where's your head at so far?" He asked pensively.

"I'm okay," she replied, her eyes on the bustling garage. "Just a bit off with the car today."

Zak's gaze sharpened. "Is it the usual?"

Michaela nodded, her eyes stuck on her car. "Just some setup issues. I trust them to figure it out."

Zak's eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of doubt. "And the other stuff?" He prodded gently.

Michaela took a deep breath, her gaze finally meeting his. "What other stuff?" She asked, feigning ignorance.

Zak leaned closer, his voice low. "You know what I mean. The business end of it."

Michaela's eyes narrowed slightly. "It's fine," she said, her voice a mix of confidence and challenge. "Let's just focus on the race."

Zak nodded, the tension between them palpable. "Alright," he said, "But I want to be clear, we're behind you. Whatever happens outside of this garage, it doesn't change how you perform in that car."

Michaela took his words to heart, nodding firmly. "Understood," she said. "Let's just focus on getting the car right."

The second practice session went smoother though still not up to Michaela's preference, the team still not quite nailing the setup. As she pulled the car back into the garage after the conclusion of the session, the tension lightened, the crew working more efficiently.

"We're making progress," Rob assured her as he handed her an energy bar. "We're just a few tweaks away."

Michaela took a bite, nodding in acknowledgment. The sweet and salty bar didn't do much to ease her nerves, but she knew that Rob and the team were working tirelessly to give her the best car possible for qualifying tomorrow.

As the team dispersed to their various tasks, she found herself in a rare moment of solitude in the garage. The hum of the other teams' cars and the distant chatter of the paddock couldn't quite drown out the thoughts racing through her mind. In the lull of the sound of engineers working at the car, Luisa approached Michaela with an energy drink.

"You're not looking too pleased," she observed, her eyes assessing the driver.

Michaela took the energy drink with a nod of thanks. "It's just... everything," she sighed. "The car, the contract, the..." she trailed off, glancing at her phone. "And now, I have to go to the press pen."

Luisa leaned against a wall, her eyes on the floor. "Christian Horner," she murmured. "He's been asking around about you."

Michaela's grip tightened on the energy drink. "What do you mean?"

"Just that he's been talking to a few people about you," Luisa said, her expression unreadable. "I don't think it's anything to worry about, but I figured you should know. Has he approached you about your contract?"

Michaela's brow furrowed, her thoughts racing. "No, not directly," she replied, taking a sip of the energy drink. "But driving for Christian Horner with Jos Verstappen potentially breathing down my neck doesn't sound appealing at all."

Luisa tried and failed to hide her amusement. "I can't say I blame you," she said, a hint of a smirk playing at her lips. "Being Max's teammate sounds... intense."

Michaela chuckled despite her nerves. "Understatement of the year," she quipped. "But seriously, I don't know what he's playing at. He knows I'd never take second seat to Max."

Luisa's smile faded, her gaze turning serious. "Well, just keep your head down and drive," she advised. "Let the results do the talking."

Michaela nodded, taking the advice to heart as she made her way to the press pen with Beata, her thoughts racing. As Beata briefed Michaela for the press' questions, Max Verstappen slinked over to her side. His knowing smile bringing a disapproving look to Michaela's features.

"So," Max began, his voice low so that only they could hear, "I hear congratulations are in order."

Michaela stiffened, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "For?"

"Oh, you know," Max replied noncommittally, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Michaela felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but she kept her cool. "You're going to have to be more specific, Max," she said, her voice steady.

Max leaned in closer, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Don't play dumb," he whispered. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Michaela felt a knot form in her stomach. "Max Emilian," she huffed, trying to keep her voice low. Max simply winked at her and walked away, ducking into the press pen, leaving her feeling more unsettled than before.

Beata looked at her, concerned. "He might be the oddest boy I've ever met." Michaela couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out. "Don't let him get to you," Beata said, patting her back. "I'm sure he won't go talking to the media about it."

Michaela took a deep breath and stepped into the press pen, her smile plastered firmly in place. She knew the drill—keep it professional, keep it clean. But as she took her spot in front of a journalist's microphone, she couldn't shake the feeling that the walls had eyes. Every question felt loaded, every glance a silent probe. She danced around the topic of race strategy, keeping her answers tight and her emotions in check.

After the press conference, she retreated to the McLaren hospitality suite, the weight of the day's events already pressing down on her. The quiet moments with her thoughts were interrupted when Beata returned with a worried look. "Christian Horner's been poking around," she said, her voice hushed. "Asking questions about your future plans."

Michaela's eyes rolled. "Luisa told me earlier. Make sure Guido knows not to indulge him, I'm not interested."

Beata nodded. "I will. Now, get out of here, try and rest before qualifying tomorrow. You need to be on point."

Michaela agreed, slipping out of the suite and into the cool evening air of Monaco. She took a moment to appreciate the scenic view of the marina before heading back to her hotel room to review the data from the practice sessions. Though Rob had reassured her that the crew was working to reconcile the issues Michaela had pointed out in the sessions earlier, she couldn't stop her mind from formulating possible solutions to her setup problem.

As she lay in bed that night, her thoughts swirled around the whispers of Christian Horner's interest and Max's knowing glances. Despite her attempt to push the concerns aside and focus on the race ahead, the fear of her relationship with Jenson being dragged into the spotlight weighed heavily on her. She knew that once the media caught wind of it, the narrative could spin out of control, affecting not just her career, but the lives of those she cared about the most.

Unable to bring herself to sleep, she reached for her phone to call Jenson. His calm voice was what she needed to soothe her nerves. The call connected through on the second ring. Michaela's eyebrows rose before furrowing as she heard the distant sound of the television in the background of the call.

The creases in her forehead smoothed over as she finally heard an excited, "Hi!", ring out from the other side of the call. Myla Button had answered her father's phone, her young voice echoing with an unusual amount of energy for a girl that was supposed to be in bed two hours ago.

"Hi, baby bear," she said with a smile she hadn't felt all day. "You're supposed to be sleeping."

"I know," Myla whispered with a giggle, "But Daddy said I could watch a movie before bedtime. But he fell asleep so now I'm watching it by myself!"

Michaela's heart melted at the sound of her voice. She missed the little moments like this, the everyday routines she had become a part of when she was with Jenson and Myla. "Oh, really? What's the movie?"

"Tangled," Myla replied with a yawn. "It's so good, but I wish you were here to watch it with me."

Michaela felt a warmth spread through her chest. "I wish I could be there too, sweetie, but I'll be back in London soon," she promised. "I've got a big race in two days, so you and your dad will have to cheer me on from there, okay?"

Myla's voice grew serious. "I know, and Daddy says you're going to win it all."

Michaela chuckled, her heart swelling with affection. "Well, I'll do my best for you two," she said, her eyes misting over. "Now, let me talk to your dad before the two of you doze off."

After a moment, Jenson's voice filled the line, groggy with sleep. He muttered incoherently on the other side as Myla giggled at his drowsiness. Michaela could hear the 8-year-old shaking her father awake as she attempted to communicate to him that his girlfriend was on the line.

"Hey, love," he murmured once he was fully conscious. "Everything okay?"

Michaela took a deep breath. "Yeah, just had a weird day," she replied, the stress evident in her tone. "Red Bull seems to have completely lost their minds. Horner's sneaking around asking about my contract and Max is... Max but odder?"

Jenson chuckled sleepily. "Just ignore them," he advised. "You've got a job to do and we've got a secret to keep."

Michaela rolled her eyes. "Easy for you to say all the way from London," she said with a laugh. "But I'll try."

000.⠀⠀MAY 28, 2022 › Monaco

The next day, the tension was palpable as the third practice session approached. The McLaren team had worked tirelessly overnight to refine her car's setup. As she climbed into the cockpit, she felt the weight of their effort and her own ambition pushing down on her. The practice went smoother than the previous two, but Michaela couldn't bite back the nagging feeling that the car still wasn't reaching its full potential on the track.

During the final minutes of the session, she heard a strange crackle over the radio, followed by a brief silence before Rob's voice came through, strained. "Michaela, we're seeing some anomalies with your car's data. We need you to box this lap."

Her heart sank. "What's wrong?" she asked, her eyes scanning the dash for any signs of trouble.

"We're not sure yet," Rob said, his voice tight. "Just play it safe and come back in."

Michaela nodded, her gaze focused on the circuit ahead as she pulled into the pit lane, the car's performance causing more trouble for the crew. The team's tension was palpable as she climbed out, her engineer and mechanics swarming around the car, checking every inch. Despite their assurances that they hadn't found anything alarming, the whispers of doubt lingered.

"I think we can get more out of the car," Michaela spoke through tight lips as she moved to stand next to Rob. She held her helmet in one hand as the other removed her ear pieces, laying them to rest against her chest. The engineers and mechanics around them were in a heated discussion, gesturing at the car's telemetry.

Rob nodded, his expression a mix of concern and determination. "We're working on it, but we don't want to push our luck. Remember, this is Monaco. It's not the place to take risks."

Michaela knew he was right, but the thought of not being able to perform at her best gnawed at her. "I trust you guys," she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "But if there's anything we can do to improve it, we should go for it."

The team huddled around, talking in hushed tones about potential adjustments. It was a delicate balance—make the car fast enough to win, but not so different that it could be a problem for Michaela to handle during qualifying in just a few hours. The whispers grew quieter as they approached the final decision. The mechanic nodded to Rob, who turned to her. "We're going to tweak the suspension a bit," he said. "It's all we can do without risking major differences. You're going to have to trust us."

Michaela took a deep breath, nodded, and disappeared into the garage to prepare herself mentally for the qualifying session. The tension was thick in the air as the final minutes before qualifying ticked down. When she emerged from her spot, her helmet was on and her game face was set. The car felt slightly different as she took it out for the first qualifying lap, but she pushed aside her reservations and focused on the track ahead, choosing to trust her team's decision. Each corner, each gear change, every brake point was a routine she knew by heart.

As the session progressed, she could feel the car beginning to work with her just the way she liked, the adjustments seeming to click into place. The crowd grew restless, eagerly waiting for the moment when their favorite drivers would battle for pole position. The air was electric with anticipation, and she fed off of it, pushing her car to the limits.

Michaela's final lap was a dance of precision and power, her tires squealing as she took the tight turns of the Monaco street circuit with ease. She knew it felt good—really good. Her heart raced as she pulled away from the racing line to begin her cooldown lap. Her head throbbed with the beginnings of a headache as she awaited the final times from the other drivers.

The silence on the radio was deafening as she waited for her engineer to confirm the time she had just set. The crowd's roar grew louder, and she could see the Ferrari and Red Bull crews looking up at the timing screens, their faces a mix of hope and trepidation. Finally, Rob's voice crackled through her headset. "Michaela, that's pole!"

Her heart soared as she pumped her fist in the air. As she pulled into parc ferme, she could see Charles and Carlos pull into the next two slots. Their red cars contrasting against her papaya orange one. She stepped out of the car, her heart racing and her cheeks flushed with excitement. The mechanics and engineers swarmed around her, pulling her into their arms and congratulating her on a job well done.

In the post-qualifying press conference, she sat between the two Ferrari drivers, a knowing smile playing on her lips. The tension between Ferrari and McLaren was palpable, but she felt a sense of victory as she had outsmarted the car and the track. The journalists threw questions at her, eager for her thoughts on the session and the race ahead.

"We had a frustrating start to our weekend," she began, her voice steady. "But the team did an incredible job making the changes. It felt like I was driving a different car from yesterday out there." She paused for a moment, her gaze lingering on the screen displaying the qualifying times. "And to be honest, I think we're all pretty surprised with the result."

The room was alive with murmurs, the energy of the impending race buzzing in the air. The journalists leaned in, eager to hear more about her strategy for the race. She knew that the pole position was crucial in Monaco, where overtaking was virtually impossible to do successfully for even the most technically sound drivers.

"So, what approach will McLaren take in terms of strategy for the race tomorrow?" A journalist from the back of the room called out, a hint of a smile in his voice.

Michaela's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Just to keep it on the street and out of the barriers," she quipped, causing the room to erupt in laughter. She knew the importance of playing the media game, keeping her cards close to her chest but giving enough to keep them intrigued.

After the press conference, she returned to the McLaren garage, where the team was already dissecting the data from qualifying. The atmosphere was a mix of relief and excitement, with engineers and mechanics sharing high-fives and slaps on the back. Rob met her with a knowing smile.

"You've done well for yourself Sommers," he said, handing over the table in his hand to Michaela's empty hands. "That issue we were having earlier was, in fact, suspension-related. You were right to push us to tweak it again."

Michaela felt a wave of relief wash over her. "Am I ever wrong?" She joked, as her eyes swept over the data, still enjoying the rush of pole position.

"Devastatingly, not very often," he huffed playfully as Michaela stuck out her tongue mockingly in response.

Night fell over the paddock as the lights of Monte Carlos settled an artificial warmth over the garage. As the McLaren crew broke down and packed up the garage for the night, a sense of pride and excitement filled the space in anticipation of the race tomorrow afternoon. Luisa allowed Michaela space to say her final goodnights to the team as she left to start the car.

As Michaela made the walk to the car, she caught sight of a familiar head of dark curls bounding toward her. It was Daniel Ricciardo, looking unusually serious. "Hey, what's up?" she called out, eyebrows furrowing in a mirror of the worry on his face.

"I just had a chat with Max," Daniel began, his voice hushed. "It was weird. He asked me a question about you and it kinda caught me off guard."

Michaela sighed with a sense of defeat. "I think he knows about Jenson and I. He was on one yesterday before press."

"Well, if he does, he's keeping it to himself," Daniel said, his eyes searching hers. "But why would he ask me? Unless he's trying to gauge the waters?"

Michaela shrugged, trying to push the concern aside. "Probably just his usual messiness," she said, but the doubt lingered. "I'm not worried about it. Jenson and I spoke last night about it, I think we're fine with more people knowing as long as it stays private, you know?"

Daniel nodded, a hint of relief in his expression. "Well, if you guys are cool with it, that's all that matters. I'll keep my mouth shut." He leaned in closer, whispering, "But beware of Horner, he's got his eyes on you, and he's not one to miss an opportunity for drama."

Michaela rolled her eyes. "I've been hearing about Horner all weekend. I'm starting to think I should go down there myself."

"No need," Daniel said with a smirk. "But maybe keep your cool. Who knows what he's after?"

Michaela nodded thoughtfully before climbing into the passenger seat of her car, ready to head back to the hotel. She knew Daniel was right—Horner's motives were always a puzzle wrapped in a hidden goal. As the car pulled away, she couldn't help but feel the weight of the impending race and the secrets she now knew were floating around the paddock.

Back in her hotel room, she tried to push aside the whispers of doubt and focus on her race prep. The walls of the room were plastered with notes and diagrams of the track, each turn and braking zone meticulously marked. She went through her mental checklist, visualizing every lap she had driven so far and planning for every possible scenario she could encounter tomorrow.

Her phone buzzed, and she saw it was a message from Jenson.

Congrats on pole, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you. Can't wait to watch the race tomorrow. Give 'em hell!

Thank you, my love. I'll do my best. Give Myla a kiss for me.

She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips as she received an oddly angled selfie of Jenson with Myla, both of them sporting their matching goofy grins. With a sigh, she put her phone away and turned to the window, looking out over the twinkling lights of the Monaco harbor. The serenity of the ocean in stark contrast to the turmoil in her head.

000.⠀⠀MAY 28, 2022 › Monaco

The next morning dawned bright and early, the sun casting long shadows across Monte Carlo as Michaela made her way to the track. The air was thick with anticipation and the lingering smell of burning rubber and gasoline. The sound of engines warming up echoed through the streets, a show of power that sent chills down her spine. She took a deep breath, centering herself.

In the garage, the McLaren crew worked efficiently, their movements a well-choreographed dance. They checked over her car with meticulous care, ensuring every nut and bolt was in place. Her heart raced as she stepped into the cockpit, her mind racing through the strategy for the day.

The race started with the usual chaos of Monaco. Cars battling for position, tires screeching, and engines roaring as they hurtled through the narrow streets. The Ferraris, usually so dominant here, seemed to be struggling with their pace. Michaela smiled to herself underneath her helmet as she began to pull away from the pack after the first few laps.

As the race unfolded, it became clear that the McLaren was the car to beat. Despite several safety car interventions and the tight, twisting nature of the circuit, she managed to keep her cool, executing perfect restarts and flawless overtakes. The crowd roared as she held off the charging pack of Perez and the Ferraris.

On lap 40, disaster almost struck. A sudden downshift error caused her heart to race, and the car jerked violently. She wrestled it back under control, but the momentary distraction allowed Sergio Perez to close the gap. Her engineer's calm voice in her ear reminded her to keep her focus, to push through. She took a deep breath, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, and set off in pursuit of her earlier rhythm. The laps ticked down with agonizing slowness. The tension grew unbearable, the crowd on the edge of their seats. Each corner was a battleground, every inch of asphalt a potential trap.

The McLaren garage sat with held breaths as Michaela began the final lap. The pit wall was the picture of tension, eyes glued to the monitors, fingers crossed. As she approached the last corner, the hairpin at Rascasse, she could see the checkered flag waving in the distance. A fiery determination filled her as she floored the gas pedal, pushing the car to its absolute limit.

With the sound of the crowd's roar in her ears, she took the checkered flag, crossing the finish line in first place. The relief and elation washed over her as she slowed down for the cool-down lap, her heart thumping in her chest like a drum.

Back in parc ferme, the team erupted in cheers and applause, slaps on the back and high-fives flying as she climbed out of the car, her helmet still secured to her head. The weight of the week's secrets and tension lifted with the final lap. The podium ceremony was a blur of flashing cameras and spraying champagne, the sweet victory bubbles mixing with the salt of her sweat.

Michaela felt the warmth of the sun on her face and the welcome weight of the trophy in her hand. The podium interviews were a mix of questions about the race and subtle nods to the off-track drama, but she remained poised, her answers focused on the victory at hand.

"A brilliant drive, especially after that scare in the final laps," the interviewer said, holding the microphone close to her face. "Your thoughts?"

Michaela grinned, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "It was a tough one, that's for sure. The team did an amazing job with the car setup and strategy. And thanks to the crowd's energy, I found that extra bit of motivation to keep pushing." She took a moment to soak in the applause before continuing, "But let's not forget about Ferrari and Red Bull. They were breathing down my neck the whole race. It's a true testament to our teamwork that we managed to pull it off here in Monaco."

As the press conference wound down, Michaela decided to take the long way back to McLaren hospitality. With a gentle hum, she told Beata to go on without her, requesting a few moments of quiet before the celebrations continued.

She walked through the quiet convention center, finally reaching the elevator that would take her back up to the main level. She slipped inside the empty container just as someone called out for her to hold the doors open. With a polite smile, Michaela reached out a manicured hand to keep the doors from closing. Her smile dropped once she saw Christian Horner enter, his shrewd eyes looking her up and down.

"Congrats on the win," he said with a tone that didn't quite match the cheerful words. "Quite the performance you put on today."

Michaela nodded curtly. "Thank you, Christian."

The elevator ascended, the tension palpable. She could feel his gaze on her, analyzing every twitch of her body language. "You know," he began, "I've always appreciated your technicality. You're so precise throughout the entire race, like Prost. I hope you've been told a million times over that your driving is very Prost-esque, very clean."

Michaela raised an eyebrow, not missing the underlying meaning. "I've heard that before," she replied coolly, her voice even. "But today was about more than just me. I couldn't have done it without my team."

Christian leaned against the railing, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Ah, yes, your team. McLaren. They've got quite the gem in you, don't they?" His tone was sly, hinting at something unsaid.

Michaela resisted a roll of her eyes as she realized what he was implying. "What do you want, Christian?"

He shrugged, his gaze never leaving hers. "Just making conversation, enjoying a well-deserved victory. It was quite the statement really. A great way to silence those whispers about distractions."

Michaela felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She knew what he was referring to, but she wasn't going to let him bait her. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Christian leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. "That's alright. I admire your ability to separate the professional from the personal."

Michaela took a deep breath, her eyes focused on the floor numbers. When she didn't indulge Christian further, he decided to continue talking.

"But let's not beat around the bush," he said, his tone shifting to something more serious. "I'll be the first to congratulate you for keeping it under wraps for so long. But be careful with how you play this game, Michaela. It's a small world, and secrets have a way of becoming nasty headlines."

Michaela's jaw tightened in annoyance. "Thank you for the advice, Christian."

"I know I'm the last person you want to hear this from. But I genuinely hope things work out for the two of you. I enjoy the challenge you bring to this grid, it's been the honor of a lifetime to watch you drive. And as always," he leaned in even closer, his breath a whisper of mint and ambition, "There's always a seat open for you with Red Bull. We'd love to have you."

The elevator dinged, interrupting his sales pitch. The doors slid open and the murmurs of the lobby flooded in. He stepped out, leaving her with the weight of his words hanging in the air.

#⠀،،⠀&. prose.#lewis hamilton x oc #alex albon x oc #max verstappen x oc #jenson button x oc #lewis hamilton #alex albon #max verstappen #driver!oc #f1 fanfic #f1 female driver #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #f1 fem!driver!oc #f1 x reader #formula one imagine #formula one

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devilmen-collector · 11 months ago

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Origin of the names of the 7 kingdoms of Hell

Ever wonder where do the names of the kingdoms (or regions) of Hell come from? Let's find out in this trivia post :3

WARNING, this post contains religious theme. If you feel comfortable, please ignore this.

Gehenna

"Gehenna", in the Bible and in real life, was originally the name of the valley of Hinnom, outside of the city of Jerusalem. In this valley, many committed the gruesome sin of sacrificing children to the god Moloch. Because of this sin, the valley was cursed by the Jews and its name was used to call the final punishing place of the reprobate. In Christianity, "Gehenna" is used to designate the place where all the demons and the damned human will thrown in at the Last Judgement, "the lake of fire", "the unquenchable fire".

Tartaros

"Tartaros", or Tartarus, was originally the term to describe the abyss of torment and suffering for the wicked and the Titans in Greek mythology.

In the 4th century BC, Greek culture and language were spread to all Eastern Mediterranean countries by the conquest of Alexander the Great. Greek became the common language in these countries and remained so for many centuries. The New Testament of the Bible was written in Greek. The term "Tartaros" was adopted by Christianity to describe Hell. Although "Tartaros" doesn't technically appear in the Bible, the associated verb tartaroō ("throw to Tartaros") does. (The verb itself is a shortened form of another verb with similar meaning kata-tartaroō ("throw down to Tartaros").

In the Bible, Tartaros is the place where fallen angels are chained to wait for judgement.

Hades

The name of the underworld in Greek mythology. It was also adopted by Christianity and used to describe Hell. However, different from Gehenna and Tartaros, Hades is a little bit complicated.

Before the work of redemption was completed in Jesus's death and resurrection, the gate of Heaven was closed. So when a someone died, that person would go to Hell (Hades) ragardless of good or bad. However, in Hades, there was "a great chasm", according to the Bible, separating the good and the bad. The good people either didn't suffer or was purified of their venial sins, while the bad people on the other side really did suffer. No one from "the good side" could cross to the other side, and vice versa.

After Jesus died, his soul descended to Hades and released the just who were detained in Hades and brought them to Heaven, while leaving the damned on the other side of the chasm, waiting for the Last Judgement, after which, both Hades and the wicked in it will be thrown into Gehenna "the lake of fire", for eternal punishment.

Abyssos

The name "Abyssos" comes from "abyss", which is also a word to describe Hell. The precise word "Abyssos" does not exist in the Bible or mythology, as far as I know.

Paradise Lost

This country shares its name with the famous work written by the poet John Milton in the 17th century. The poem Paradise Lost is a dramatized version that retells the story of the fallen angels and their role in the fall of Adam and Eve.

Niflheim

The name comes from Norse mythology of the Scandinavian people. Originally, Niflheim was realm of primordial ice and fog, being one of the two primordial realms, the other being Muspelheim, the realm of fire. Later, the realm became the abode of Hel, the daughter of the god Loki, and it became the afterlife for those who didn't die a heroic or notable death, overlapping with another realm in Norse cosmology, Helheim.

Abaddon

In the Bible, "Abaddon" is both a place and an entity. As a place, Abaddon is the place of destruction, the realm for the dead. As an individual entity, Abaddon is described in the Bible as "a king, the angel of the bottomless pit; whose name in Hebrew is Abaddon, and in Greek Apollyon; in Latin Exterminans" - Revelation 9:11

Now "Abaddon" is entirely tied with the meaning of destruction. Abaddon itself means destruction or "place of destruction". The root of the word abad means perish, or destroy. Both the Greek name Apollyon and the Latin name Exterminans mean destroyer.

#what in “hell” is bad?#prettybusy what in “hell” is bad?#whb trivia #whb gehenna #whb tartaros #whb hades #whb avisos #whb abyssos #whb paradise lost #whb niflheim #whb abaddon

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whencyclopedia · 6 months ago

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Ancient Christianities: The First Five Hundred Years

Paula Fredriksen is an eminent figure in the field of early Christianity and ancient Judaism, and her knowledge of the historical and religious circumstances surrounding these faiths is well-established. Her writings are essential reading for those curious about how religion, history, and culture interacted in the ancient Mediterranean.

Ancient Christianities: The First Five Hundred Years by Paula Fredriksen conveys precisely written ideas from the result of meticulously analyzing a great deal of historical data. Different branches of Christianity emerged simultaneously in reaction to a flourishing Judaism and an established religion that was not dead but was instead referred to as "paganism" by Christians. By delving into the subject of ancient "Christianities," new light is shown on the religious practices of the ancient cultures of the Mediterranean and the Middle East during the latter 200 years of the 1st century CE. Christian, Pagan, and Jewish faiths are discussed. The book itself contributes significantly to the history of Christianity and explores aspects of other religions.

Paula Fredriksen is a historian of early Christianity and William Goodwin Aurelio Professor of Scripture at Boston University. Early in her career, Fredriksen published writing on topics such as Christian antisemitism, Judaism, and Christianity. Now, in Ancient Christianities, Fredriksen traces the history of Christianity in the ancient Mediterranean from its nativity up to the 5th century. Throughout history, many people believed in the figure of Jesus transforming countries into monotheistic societies, and Fredriksen provides incalculable depth and insight into this process.

From its beginnings as a messianic sect within Second Temple Judaism to its ultimate inclusion into the late Roman imperial government and rise to prominence in the Western world following Roman rule, Fredriksen emphasizes the whole historical trajectory of Christianity from the 1st through 7th centuries. She ties together the intricate network of interactions among supernatural beings, the celestial bodies, spirits, and prophetic forces existing in the ancient "flat-disced" Earth and geocentric universe as well as the many ways in which the Pagan, Jewish, and Christian occupants of the Mediterranean interacted with these beings.

Fredriksen imparts her profound understanding of the history of Christianity and how the doctrines of the Abrahamic faiths have evolved through the ages in clear and understandable writing. In her view, the history of ancient “Christianities” is more deep and nuanced than previously thought, and she intends to "introduce the reader to the complexities and ambiguities, the ironies and surprises and the twists and turns" to reveal this. If you ask Fredriksen, the Christian faith does not have its roots just in Jesus, there is more to the origin story. Through her writing, she hopes to convey the idea that a "large cast of characters" is responsible for shaping modern religion.

According to her, the narrative and development of "Christianities" encompasses a wide range of characters, including aristocratic patrons, eccentric ascetics, gods, devils, angels, magicians, astrologers, and regular folks. The author examines the gradual conversion of numerous non-monotheistic faiths to monotheism over several centuries, drawing parallels and differences across various ethnic and theological traditions.

Theology, Israel, the impact of social factors including diversity, the necessity for governmental control, and persecutions on the development of Christianity are all covered in depth in the chapters that follow. Further discussions touch on the various regions impacted by the Second Temple Matrix, the connections between Jews and pagans, and the incorporation of Jewish people and culture into Greco-Roman civilization.

Historians, theologians, and anyone interested in the origins of one of the world's largest religious groups would benefit from reading this book, which focuses on the transition of Israel and the Jewish message of the end of time to the emergence of different gentile Christianities. With her unconventional viewpoint and extensive knowledge of the subject, Fredriksen offers readers an opportunity to learn something new. Fredriksen has been an excellent resource for scholars of global religions for decades, and her work is truly unique and rich in history; as a result, this is a recommended book. For further reading materials, readers would find Bart D. Ehrman's The Triumph of Christianity: How a Forbidden Religion Swept the World (2018) and Diarmaid MacCulloch's Christianity: The First Three Thousand Years (2009) to be suitable companion reads.

#History #Christianity #Judaism #MediterraneanSea

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feedybot · 12 days ago

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The Tipping Point, PART 1/2

Chapter One: Just a Little Extra

You’d been on a “health kick” for about a week.

Again.

This time it was a Mediterranean thing—olive oil, fish, vegetables, whole grains. It actually wasn’t bad, at first. You’d meal prepped like a pro on Sunday, filled the fridge with colorful containers and planned your workouts on a little whiteboard stuck to the freezer. You felt good. You felt in control.

But then came Thursday.

You walked through the door after a long day, stomach growling, feet aching, the smell of garlic and butter already hanging thick in the air. You barely managed to get your shoes off before you called out.

“What’s cooking?”

Your husband’s voice floated in from the kitchen, warm and cheerful. “Something special. You’ve been working so hard lately, I figured you deserve a treat.”

You hesitated in the hallway, toeing at the tile floor. “I was gonna have the salmon and quinoa thing I made…”

There was a pause, followed by a sizzling sound and a smell that made your mouth water.

“Babe,” he said gently, stepping out with a grin and a wooden spoon still in hand, “that can wait till tomorrow. This? This is fresh.”

You peeked past him into the kitchen and saw a bubbling pan of creamy pasta on the stove—ribbons of fettuccine tangled in a thick sauce, glistening with cheese and butter. Toasted garlic bread waited on a tray beside it. And a little bowl of Caesar salad, as if it made the whole thing balanced.

It was your favorite.

You opened your mouth to argue… then closed it again. Your stomach made the decision for you, rumbling audibly. He chuckled, kissed your forehead, and gently took your bag off your shoulder.

“I’ll pour the wine.”

You sat down with a sigh. “Just a little,” you said, but you already knew the meal would be anything but.

—

One plate turned into two. The salad disappeared quickly—mostly to justify the second helping of pasta. The bread was warm and crusty, the butter soaked deep into its golden surface. You told yourself you’d just have a bite. Then just half.

Then it was gone.

By the end of the meal, you felt full in that slow, drowsy, too-comfortable way. Your belly pressed lightly against your waistband as you leaned back, wine glass in hand, feeling flushed and guilty and—somehow—happy.

He watched you with a quiet, unreadable look. His hand slipped to your thigh under the table, his touch gentle and reassuring. “See?” he murmured. “You deserve to relax.”

You wanted to protest. Say something about calories, or your whiteboard schedule, or the promise you made to yourself. But all that came out was a soft, sleepy hum of agreement as you leaned into his shoulder.

Chapter Two: Slipping Slowly

You did try again.

Friday morning, you woke up feeling that familiar pit in your stomach—not hunger, but regret. You told yourself it was just one meal. You still had time to turn the week around. You laced up your sneakers, chugged some water, and headed to the gym with determination in your step… and the pasta from last night still sitting heavily in your belly.

The workout was slow. You pushed through it, sweating harder than usual, your movements a little sluggish, a little less precise. You avoided the mirrors.

Later, back home, you snapped open one of your meal-prepped containers, trying not to think about the way it looked next to last night’s feast. Dry grilled chicken, couscous, and broccoli. It filled you, technically—but it didn’t satisfy you.

Your husband walked by, kissed your cheek, and didn’t say a word.

But that night, he offered to order in.

“Just for fun,” he said casually. “No pressure. You’ve had a long week.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m sticking with my meal plan.”

He nodded, accepting, and disappeared into the living room. You sat there alone, fork in hand, chewing a piece of roasted carrot that tasted like cardboard.

And then the smell hit.

Thai. Your real weakness. Rich coconut curries, sticky rice, those little crispy spring rolls that always came steaming hot and perfectly golden. You tried to block it out, but it was hopeless. When you peeked into the living room, he was already on the couch with the food spread out in front of him, looking up at you like he was trying not to smirk.

“You sure you don’t want just a bite?” he asked innocently, holding up a spoonful of glistening, spicy sauce.

You crossed your arms. “You’re evil.”

He grinned. “You say that like it’s a no.”

You lasted maybe five minutes before sitting down next to him, pretending you were just “tasting” it. The curry was sweet and velvety, the rice soaked in it perfectly. One bite turned into two. Then you took a spring roll. Then you asked for your own spoon.

Somewhere between the last dumpling and the end credits of the movie, you stopped pretending you were resisting.

That weekend followed the same rhythm—moments of resolve, immediately followed by tiny indulgences. Pancakes on Saturday morning, “split” fries at lunch that mysteriously disappeared almost all on your side of the plate, popcorn with butter during movie night. You told yourself you’d start over on Monday. Always Monday.

By Sunday night, you were laying in bed with a soft belly and a strange, quiet feeling that mixed guilt with something almost comforting. His hand slid under your shirt, over your stomach, and he kissed your neck softly.

“You looked really happy this weekend,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer, not right away. You just closed your eyes and let yourself be held, trying not to notice how snug your shirt felt across your chest—or how easily he touched the new softness you were starting to carry

Chapter Three: The Quiet Creep

You didn’t notice the changes at first. Not really.

Your clothes still fit—for the most part. Maybe the waistbands left a slightly deeper mark when you peeled them off at night. Maybe your bras needed a little more adjusting lately, and you’d started favoring the ones with stretchier bands. But nothing dramatic. Nothing alarming.

Besides, you’d always fluctuated a little. A few pounds here, a few there. It was just how your body worked. You were used to the ebb and flow.

What did change, quietly, was your appetite.

You started to crave more. Your little meals didn’t cut it anymore—not after the week of rich sauces and takeout splurges. You found yourself adding an extra spoonful to your plate. You stopped skipping dessert. You started looking forward to your husband’s surprise snacks and spontaneous cravings.

He made it all so easy.

Sometimes, he brought home pastries in the morning—just one for you, “because I passed your favorite bakery.” Other nights, he’d surprise you with something baking in the oven, always timed perfectly for when you walked through the door: rich, cheesy casseroles, gooey mac and cheese, buttery roast potatoes. You still worked out sometimes. You still thought about being healthy. But the effort felt less urgent now. Less important.

And honestly? You felt more content than you had in a while.

There was something comforting in letting go a little. The pressure to be perfect, to follow every food rule, to constantly strive for that someday body—it had always left you stressed and unsatisfied. But now, your husband looked at you like you were already enough. No, more than enough. Like the extra softness only made you better.

One night, you caught your reflection in the mirror as you stepped out of the shower. The change was still subtle—your belly a touch rounder, the curve of your hips a little fuller. You turned side to side, studying yourself with curious detachment.

You didn’t hate what you saw. You didn’t love it, either.

But when he came in behind you, slid his arms around your waist, and kissed your bare shoulder, you felt something shift.

He didn’t say anything—just rested his hands on the new softness, gently, almost reverently, and met your gaze in the mirror with a small smile.

You looked away first.

Chapter Four: Denial, Served Warm

You didn’t weigh yourself.

You told yourself it was a healthy choice—not obsessing over numbers, not letting a little digital screen dictate your self-worth. But really, you knew better. The scale sat in the corner of the bathroom, untouched, gathering a faint layer of dust.

Instead, you judged things by how your clothes fit. Or at least, how they used to fit.

Your favorite jeans had quietly migrated to the back of the drawer. The high-waisted pair with the stiff waistband? Forget it. You’d started reaching for leggings more often, oversized hoodies, anything soft and forgiving. You told yourself it was just for comfort, that you were bloated, that laundry day had limited your options. Every excuse, soft and soothing, wrapped around you like the blanket you kept pulling over your body when you collapsed on the couch after dinner.

Because dinners… had changed.

They’d become events.

He made them feel like rituals: candlelight, music, a bottle of wine, second helpings before you could even ask. You’d always had a decent appetite, sure, but lately it was different. You weren’t just eating because you were hungry—you were eating because it felt good. Every meal he made was so rich, so delicious, and he never held back with the portions.

And you never refused.

You didn’t even notice how often you went back for seconds. Or thirds. You didn’t notice how he lingered, watching as you cleaned your plate, smiling softly, always ready with more. You didn’t think too hard about how often he touched your hips now, let his hand rest on your stomach after dinner, or kissed the corners of your mouth like he was tasting the last bite.

But deep down… part of you knew.

You just didn’t want to face it.

One morning, as you got dressed for brunch with friends, you pulled on a blouse you hadn’t worn in a while. It used to be loose—your go-to when you wanted to feel effortlessly cute. Now, it clung around your middle, the fabric tight enough to pull slightly between the buttons. You tugged it down and looked in the mirror, trying to smooth it out, trying not to frown.

From behind, he appeared, arms looping around you.

“You look gorgeous,” he murmured against your ear, his hands resting right where the shirt felt the tightest. “Seriously.”

You gave a weak laugh. “It’s a little snug.”

“I like it,” he said, voice low, lips brushing your neck. “Everything about you lately feels… softer. Happier.”

You didn’t respond. Just stared into the mirror as he held you there, his fingers slowly moving over the new curves that weren’t there a few months ago. The ones you’d been trying not to notice.

You wore the blouse anyway.

And at brunch, you ordered the French toast.

Chapter Five: Numbers Don’t Lie

It happened on a Tuesday morning.

You’d just finished a shower, hair wrapped in a towel, steam still clinging to the mirror. You were running late, but something pulled you back into the bathroom. Your eyes drifted to the corner, where the digital scale sat, neglected and silent.

You stared at it for a long moment. Heartbeat rising.

You hadn’t stepped on it in… months?

Your stomach was still warm and heavy from last night’s dinner—creamy mashed potatoes, roasted chicken with thick gravy, and two slices of homemade apple pie, courtesy of your husband’s sudden “baking phase.” You remembered how full you’d felt afterward, how tight your waistband had gotten, how he’d smiled when you let out that soft little groan and leaned back, stuffed.

You’d laughed it off. You always laughed it off.

But this morning, the bloated feeling lingered. Your thighs looked fuller. Your belly curved out with a softness you could no longer write off as water weight. And now, standing there in nothing but a towel, you could see it—truly see it.

The roundness in your face. The faint roll forming beneath your breasts. The way your hips had widened just enough to shift how your towel tucked in.

You took a deep breath and stepped on the scale.

157.4 lbs.

Your breath caught.

You blinked. Stepped off. Stepped back on.

157.6 lbs.

You couldn’t remember the last time the number had been that high. Maybe never. It didn’t feel real. Not until you stood there for a long minute, towel loosening around you, reality sinking in like a weight on your chest.

You hadn’t just gained a little. This was… real. Measurable.

And yet, even as the number echoed in your head, another memory crept in:

Your husband’s hands on your waist last night, gently guiding you back for seconds. The way his eyes darkened as you finished the last bite. How he kissed you afterward like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He didn’t seem to mind. In fact… he seemed to like it.

That night, you made a salad for dinner.

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you quietly as you prepped your plate. When he sat down with his own serving—generous, creamy, full of roasted chicken and croutons—you noticed he’d added a little extra to yours too. Some shaved parmesan. A drizzle of olive oil. A thick slice of buttered bread on the side.

“Babe,” you said, hesitant, “I was thinking maybe… I should cut back. A bit.”

He paused, fork in hand, eyes warm. “Cut back?”

You nodded, trying to sound casual. “I weighed myself today.”

His lips curved into something unreadable—half concern, half something else entirely. “And?”

“I’ve put on a few pounds.”

He reached across the table, took your hand.

“You look incredible.”

You wanted to argue. Say something logical. Sensible. Instead, you let him squeeze your fingers, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and tried to ignore how the bread was still warm… and how hungry you suddenly felt again.

Chapter Six: Mirror, Mirror

You waited until he left for work.

The second the front door closed and the lock clicked, you were already peeling your hoodie off. The living room still smelled faintly of breakfast—bacon, syrup, cinnamon-sugar toast—and your stomach gave a lazy churn, still half-full from the meal you’d eaten out of habit more than hunger.

Your hands were trembling before you even made it to the mirror.

You’d avoided it lately—never stopping too long, never letting your eyes linger. But today, you faced it. Stripped off the hoodie, then your leggings, then your tank top. One by one until you stood there in just a bra and panties. Bare. Exposed. No more soft lighting. No more flattering angles.

No more denial.

Your breath caught.

Your belly, once soft but subtle, now pushed gently forward—round, undeniably heavier. The waistband of your panties pressed into your skin, leaving a faint red line across your hips. There was a crease forming below your navel now, one that deepened when you shifted. You reached down and touched it, fingers trembling, tracing the unfamiliar curve.

Your thighs had changed too. Fuller. Plush. They brushed together now when you stood still, a faint rub that had become normal but you’d never really noticed. You turned sideways. Your backside jutted out more, your bra digging in slightly at the band.

You raised your arms and watched how everything shifted—the way your belly gave a soft jiggle, how the flesh under your arms was a little looser, a little softer than you remembered. You grabbed at your love handles with both hands, pressing into them, trying to reshape them, contain them.

They didn’t go anywhere.

Your chest, once barely filling your cups, now threatened to spill over them. Your favorite bra had started leaving marks. You’d blamed the dryer. You’d blamed swelling. You’d blamed everything but this.

This body.

Your body.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It came out shaky, broken. You turned, trying to find an angle that didn’t feel like someone else’s reflection—but it all looked unfamiliar. Heavier. Wider. Real.

You dropped to the bed, half-dressed, heart pounding. Your hands went to your stomach again, almost without thinking, cradling it. You sat there, feeling the weight of it settle into your lap, heavy and undeniable. You pushed against it. It pushed back.

“How did this happen?” you whispered.

But you knew.

You knew.

Every meal, every bite, every moment you’d shrugged it off and let him take care of you. The way he’d encouraged you to skip workouts, the desserts that had become routine, the casual grazing that seemed so harmless at the time. It had all felt so innocent.

Hadn’t it?

Or… had he known exactly what he was doing?

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A text from him: “Thinking of you. Hope you’re relaxing today. I left a little surprise in the fridge.”

You sat frozen for a long moment, your stomach flipping—not from hunger, but from something deeper. Something almost like dread.

Then you stood up. Slowly. Still staring at yourself in the mirror.

Because for the first time, you didn’t just see the change.

You felt it.

And it scared you.

Chapter Seven: What You’ve Been Feeding Me

You didn’t open the fridge.

You couldn’t. Not after what you’d just seen in the mirror. Not after sitting on the bed in your too-tight underwear, holding yourself like a stranger. You ignored his text. You didn’t even reply. You just sat, stewing in a mix of disbelief, confusion… and something dangerously close to betrayal.

You didn’t want to believe it.

But the thoughts wouldn’t stop spiraling.

The subtle portion increases. The constant temptations. The way he always brushed off your concerns with a compliment or a kiss or another warm plate full of something rich and impossible to resist. It had all felt so loving. So natural.

Now it felt calculated.

By the time he got home that evening, you were waiting.

He walked in with a smile on his face, a paper bag in hand, the kind you knew carried something indulgent. “Hey, babe—guess what I found at the bakery? Those little custard tarts you—”

You cut him off.

“Sit down.”

His eyes flicked up, surprised by your tone. But he obeyed, setting the bag on the counter and pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. You stood across from him, arms folded tightly over your chest, still wearing the oversized hoodie from this morning—but now you felt everything under it. The heaviness. The tightness. The truth.

“I weighed myself.”

He said nothing. Just looked at you, calm. Neutral.

“I’ve gained… over twenty pounds. Twenty. And you never said a word. Not once.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You’ve looked beautiful every single day.”

“That’s not the point!” you snapped, voice cracking. “You knew. You saw it happening. And instead of helping me—instead of encouraging me to stay on track—you just kept feeding me. You wanted this.”

Silence. He didn’t deny it.

Your heart raced. “You planned it, didn’t you? You knew I couldn’t say no forever. You were just waiting for me to give in.”

He exhaled, slowly. Leaned forward on his elbows, eyes soft but steady.

“You were miserable before.”

You blinked. “What?”

He spoke slowly, carefully. “Always stressing over what you ate. Counting calories. Starting over every Monday. You hated your body no matter how hard you tried. And I hated seeing you like that.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“I never forced anything,” he continued. “I didn’t hide vegetables or slip butter into your smoothies. I just gave you the freedom to enjoy things. And yeah… maybe I hoped you’d let go a little. Maybe I wanted to see what would happen if you stopped fighting yourself all the time.”

You stared at him.

“So you wanted me to get fat?”

He flinched slightly, but didn’t deny it. “I wanted you to feel safe. Safe enough to eat. To be full. To let yourself have what you want without guilt.”

You felt heat rise to your face—anger, shame, confusion, something molten and messy.

“You should’ve told me,” you whispered. “You should’ve asked.”

“I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

That stopped you. The room felt thick with silence.

He stood slowly, came around the table, and placed his hands gently on your hips. They settled higher than they used to. You felt the warmth of his palms against the new softness there.

“I love this version of you,” he said quietly. “But it’s not about what I want. It’s about what you want now.”

You looked up at him, breathing shallow. You could feel the weight on your body, the pressure of your belly against the inside of your hoodie, the way your thighs had begun to subtly touch even standing still. All of it.

“So what happens now?” you asked.

His answer came without hesitation.

“That’s up to you.”

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