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sicutpuella · 2 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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communicationthroughlyrics · 3 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 · 8 months 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 · 2 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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probablyasocialecologist · 5 months ago

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Just as the Arab is always involved in Jewish Israeli discourse, the tree is always uninvolved. What could be ‘involved’ about planting a tree? A tree is a tree is a tree. And trees are not only uninvolved, they are good. ‘Ecologists usually portray nature as a domain of intrinsic value’, writes geography and law scholar Irus Braverman in her book, Planted Flags: Trees, Land, and Law in Israel/Palestine. Trees are assumed to be natural, innocent ecological entities with no say in politics. But in this conflict, which is largely a conflict over land – with two national movements contesting the same territory – digging below the surface shows that trees have been used strategically to seize, hold and control territory. They are used as tools ‘almost as if they were weapons’, writes Shaul Ephraim Cohen in his book, The Politics of Planting. It is in Israel’s interest for trees to appear uninvolved, resulting in a process that Braverman calls ‘naturalisation’, meaning the portrayal of ecological changes as ‘natural’ or otherwise inevitable, and the use of the innocence of nature to cloak an ethno-national agenda. Indeed, Braverman’s book was originally titled Tree Wars before her publisher asked for a more marketable title. The message is clear: trees are part of a ‘covert war’ that mobilises ecology to fix and create geopolitical facts in the region, largely through the actions of the KKL-JNF – Keren Kayemeth LeIsrael, or the Jewish National Fund. The Jerusalem Forest, where I myself planted a pine sapling at the age of six, is a creation of the KKL-JNF, which planted a greenbelt of parks in the Judaean Hills west of the city in the 1950s and 1960s. Later, after Israel captured East Jerusalem – and the entire West Bank – from Jordanian control and ‘reunified’ it in 1967, this forest was expanded eastwards, across the Green Line. Like two-thirds of the 400,000 acres of forests managed by the KKL-JNF, the Jerusalem Forest is not scientifically classified as a ‘natural forest’ like the native stands of Mediterranean oak, terebinth and carob in the wetter parts of northern Israel. It is a distinctly human creation, with large monocultural stands of Aleppo pine trees of the same age. Ecologically, these pines are considered a ‘pioneer species’: growing quickly, requiring little maintenance and colonising what is considered, in the Zionist imaginary, to be ‘barren’ land. Colonisation is precisely the point of afforestation. The KKL-JNF is a Zionist and quasi-governmental agency that was founded in 1901 as the paramount institution for buying and holding land for Jewish settlement in what was then Ottoman Palestine. The organisation bought land from local Palestinian residents and then began foresting or farming the land to demonstrate their presence and provide protection from land alienation. Today the KKL-JNF is still the largest private landholder in the region, owning 13 per cent of Israeli territory. Braverman describes the KKL-JNF as Israel’s ‘land-laundering body’, as the state employs the agency’s non-governmental status to hold vast swathes of land for exclusively Jewish use without fear of being labelled discriminatory. While the KKL-JNF performs many quasi-governmental tasks such as building roads, dams and farms, it is best known today for its campaigns to rehabilitate ‘degraded’ forests and plant new ones. The KKL-JNF claims to have planted 250 million trees over the past 120 years.

[...]

After 1948, when the State of Israel was founded and more than 750,000 Palestinians were forcibly expelled from their land, the KKL-JNF began planting forests over Palestinian villages to prevent their residents from returning. The KKL-JNF felt that trees were, in their words, ‘the best guards of the land … Walls and fences can be cut down. A tree says “we are here”’. After planting, tree law protected new forests from demolition. This legal aspect was critical for afforestation’s success in capturing, occupying and controlling the land. It is part of what Braverman terms the ‘lawfare’ of the state, meaning an imperialist’s use of their own rules to impose a regime, which is then legitimised by its own legal structure. Israeli courts have determined that when a forest is grown on expropriated land, Palestinians who return to that land are trespassing. In 2010, the Supreme Court rejected a petition by Palestinian refugees from the village of al-Lajjun to reclaim land in the Megiddo forest, ruling that afforestation justified Israeli control under the 1953 Land Acquisition Law. As both Cohen and Braverman note then, short of human inhabitation, trees were considered the most effective tool to hold and control land for the Jewish state. What this meant, in practice, was that if there weren’t enough Jews to settle the land, the state used trees instead – as stand-ins for Jewish bodies. The flip side of Israel controlling land through Jewish tree presence is expropriating Palestinian land through absence. Nowhere is this clearer than in the paradoxical legal status of the so-called ‘present absentees’, Palestinians who were internally displaced after the 1948 war. Under Israeli law, they lost their land deeds because they failed to prove ownership with a physical presence, even though many were driven from that land by violence. Israeli laws governing ‘Absentees’ Property’ have expropriated a startling 70 per cent of Israeli territory within the Green Line. Palestinian ‘absence’ was sloganised long before 1948 in the Zionist saying, ‘A land without a people for a people without a land’, which epitomises a deep failure and unwillingness to recognise native Palestinian inhabitation.

19 October 2021

#trees #israel #palestine #zionism #settler colonialism #Jewish National Fund

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23victoria · 7 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 · 16 days ago

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❁ : 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 · 7 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 · 2 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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argyrocratie · 1 year ago

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(...)

In a message that sharply diverges from the mainstream Israeli public discourse amid the army’s ongoing assault on Gaza, and at a time when anyone in Israel who expresses even mild opposition to the war is facing persecution and repression, Mitnick told +972: “My refusal is an attempt to influence Israeli society and to avoid taking part in the occupation and the massacre happening in Gaza. I’m trying to say that it’s not in my name. I express solidarity with the innocent in Gaza. I know they want to live; they don’t deserve to be made refugees for the second time in their lives.”

(...)

How did your decision to refuse enlistment come about?

Even before the first draft notice, I knew I was not interested in enlisting. I knew I wasn’t willing to serve in this system that perpetuates apartheid in the West Bank and only contributes to the cycle of bloodshed. I understood from the very privileged position I find myself in, having a supportive family and environment, that I have an obligation to use it to reach other young people and to show that there is another way.

When I talk to my friends — some of whom serve and some of whom received exemptions — about why I’m not going to the army, they understand that it comes from a humane perspective of consideration for the other. No one thinks I support Hamas or want [my friends] to experience harm. There are people who believe that military activity will bring security; I believe that my public refusal is what will influence and bring the most security.

How did the protests against the judicial overhaul help you shape your worldview?

Before the protests, I viewed political activism as something very distant, and I didn’t think it was possible to make an impact as an individual. When the protests began and I saw they included members of Knesset going out to the streets, I realized that politics is closer to me than I thought, that it can reach every corner of the country, and that it is possible to have an influence. That’s where I understood that my actions can affect the reality we see here, and I have an obligation to act for a better future.

Were you debating whether to do it now, given the current atmosphere?

Yes, there were doubts. I always knew that the army doesn’t have a consistent policy regarding conscientious objectors, that the response can change in a moment – to release all objectors or to imprison them for a long time — and I was prepared for that. After October 7 and the [government’s] attack on the peace movement, on Jewish-Arab partnership, and on Palestinian citizens expressing support and solidarity with the innocent in Gaza, even on demonstrations, it has become frightening. But now is precisely the time to show the other side, to show that we exist.

Do you think there’s anyone in the country willing to listen to such messages right now?

We all know that we need another way, especially after October 7. We all know that it simply doesn’t work, that Benjamin Netanyahu is not “Mr. Security.” Managing the conflict is a policy that hasn’t worked and eventually collapsed.

We can’t continue with the current situation, and there are two options now: the right suggests transfer and genocide of the Palestinians in Gaza; the other side says there are Palestinians here, living between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea, and they are entitled to rights. Even people who voted for Bibi, and even those who supported the judicial reform, can connect to the idea that everyone deserves to live justly, that everyone deserves a roof over their heads, and support shared existence here.

After October 7, many who were on the left claimed they “sobered up”. Did this affect you?

There is no justification for harming innocent civilians. The criminal attack on October 7, in which innocents were killed, is illegitimate resistance to the oppression of the Palestinian people in my eyes. However, outlawing legitimate resistance such as protests, or declaring human rights organizations as terrorist organizations, leads people to dehumanize the other and to actions targeting civilians.

October 7 did not change my perspective; it only reinforced it. I still believe it is impossible to live with the siege on Gaza and an occupation, and not feel [any consequences]. I believe that many people finally understand this. The idea of “out of sight, out of mind” doesn’t work. Something needs to change, and the only way is to talk, to reach a political settlement. I’m not saying it will solve everything, but it will be another step toward justice and peace.

What was your experience at the Conscience Committee?

The pre-committee interviewer was aggressive. She questioned my nonviolence because I opposed the government’s actions and the occupation. Essentially, due to my opinions, she told me that I am not a conscientious objector because these were political views.

In the end, I went through the pre-committee, and appeared before the committee itself less than a week after the interview, while many people usually wait half a year. It was a hostile interview: me opposite four people.

They attacked my opinions. They asked me what I would have done on October 7, and how I would have handled the situation. They constantly interrupted me, and said they would phrase the question differently. I tried to continue answering, but they said I wasn’t responding to them. I am not the leader of Israel; they can’t place me in that position.

They asked me how my refusal is different from the refusal of Brothers in Arms [a group of army veterans who declared their refusal to show up for reserve service in protest against the judicial coup]. I replied that I appreciate them and think it’s important that there are people who have a red line for service — but I set my red line before that, and I hope their red line moves in the direction of my red line.

Two days later, they told me I hadn’t passed the committee. I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t receive any explanation, they just called and told me the result."

...

#israel #palestine

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theabstruseone · 2 years ago

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'TIL a papyrus scroll indicates that, during the building of the tomb of Pharaoh Ramses III, the workers were upset about their treatment and, rather than discussing it with them, management served them a large meal.

'The workers didn't think that was enough so occupied the Valley of the Kings refusing entry to anyone until they were given a raise and "cosmetics" (research shows it was a form of sunscreen).

'So not only does workers organizing a strike and forming a picket line for better wages and workplace safety conditions date back TO THE FRIGGIN' BRONZE AGE, but also management has been trying to placate discontented workers with a pizza party.'

And then that went viral on Twitter and I got hammered with people trying to "Well ackshually" about my three-tweet-long thread on a thing I'd learned just that morning I turned into a joke about corporate pizza parties. So I decided to research and here's the entire story.

TL;DR: I was pretty much right except it'd be closer to say "donuts/cupcakes in the breakroom" rather than "pizza party".

The events took place sometime around 1157 BCE (specifically the 29th year of Ramses III’s reign) in the village of Deir el-Medina, a worker village for the people who worked on the built the tombs in the Valley of the Kings.

BTW, the site itself is fascinating as it was first excavated in 1922 and ended up being one of the most thoroughly documented accounts of community life in the ancient world and proved the builders of the Pyramids were middle-class skilled artisans and craftspeople, not slaves.

You also have to know that this era of history is around the start of what’s known as the Bronze Age Collapse. Some sort of environmental catastrophe happened that caused widespread crop failures across the ancient world.

Now what precisely happened is strongly debated, but generally several groups from elsewhere in Europe and Africa known as the “Sea People” attacked the ancient civilizations of the Mediterranean, which caused most of those cultures to collapse.

Also, commerce was a bit different as they were (oversimplified explanation) on the bread standard. Salaries were measured in values of beer and bread as the recipes for those were standardized and made up the basics of the diet.

So while common laborers would be paid in literal beer and bread, more highly-valued workers would be paid in an equivalent of a larger allotment of beer and bread. So they’d get paid “100 loaves a day” worth of oil or metal or coin representing the value.

Now, for our tale. This comes from the contemporary account of the scribe Amennakhte. If anyone wants to read along, a photo of the scroll along with a translation is available to read for free at https://libcom.org/article/records-strike-egypt-under-ramses-iii-c1157bce

On Year 29, Second Month of Winter, Day 10, a group of workers walked past the guards and sat at the Temple of Menkheperre stating it had been 18 days since they’d last been paid, staying the night in the tomb saying “We have matters of Pharaoh”.

The following day, a scribe brought the workers 55 “s'b-cakes”. So yes, a “pizza party”. I can’t find any reference to what this is precisely other than “fine bread” that was worth more than a large loaf of standard bread.

Seriously, I wasted an hour of my life trying to figure out what “s'b-cakes” are exactly so if anyone knows please tell me.

Anyway, it didn’t work and there was “quarrelling” at the temple of Ramses II. The translations says “chief of police” which doesn’t seem quite right but I’ll go with it, but anyway he said he’d fetch the mayor of Thebes.

The mayor claimed they didn’t have enough to pay. The workers responded by saying “The prospect of hunger and thirst has driven us to this. There is no clothing, there is no ointment*, there is no fish, there are no vegetables.”

They then said to go tell it to the Pharoah directly. On Day 12 (the day following the “quarrelling”), they were given their ration they were due during the previous month (basically, they got their back pay). It was 21 days late.

Side note: I got some pushback by an “Egyptologist” for calling the “ointment” a type of sunscreen and…yes, it was. Some translations mark this as “cosmetics” but it was a medicinal balm used to prevent and treat sunburn. What the hell else would you call it?

So Day 13 (the fourth day of the strikes) and Mentmose, the “chief of police”, apparently took a side. He told the workers to lock down the work site and continue their protests, and that he’d lead them to the temple to continue the sit in.

His words (recorded by Amennakhte): “I’ll tell you my opinion. Go up, gather your tools, close your doors, fetch your families, and I’ll lead you to the temple of Seti I and let you settle down there.”

At this point, the tax master Ptahemheb came out to talk to them making a list of all the things they demanded. On Day 15 (sixth day of the strike), they tried another “pizza party” with half a sack of barley and a jar of beer for each worker.

Amennakhte doesn’t say what their response was exactly, but does say that the workers brought torches so they could continue the protest in the dark. So I take it the response wasn’t good.

Day 17 (eighth day of the strike), the head of the temple came out and asked what demands to bring to the Pharoah for them. And they gave a detailed list of what precise wages they wanted for each of the workers.

On that day, they were given what they asked for in rations for the second month of winter. They may have also been paid early as they should have been paid on the 21st or 28th day depending on the source.

So we’re now in the third month of winter (no exact date written) and they’re still striking. Worker Mose said basically “As Amun as my witness if you drag me away I will come back and start robbing the tombs.” I couldn’t fit the whole thing in one tweet.

Reshpetref, the proctor, said “We will not come back, you can tell your superiors that. For sure, it is not because of hunger that we strike, but we have a serious charge to make. Something bad has been done in this place of the Pharoah”.

We’re on the fourth month of winter now, Day 28 (so over three months of striking now) before the Vizier shows up. This is the government official that handles day-to-day business and is second only to the Pharoah.

He says he just got promoted so isn’t authorized to give them their wages (at least partially true, he’d just been promoted five days prior) and even if he could, there was nothing in the granaries to pay them with.

The granaries may have been empty because of the other issues going on with the Bronze Age Collapse or it may have just been the rampant corruption speculated of the government of the era, or he may have been lying.

On the first month of summer Day 2, the crew got two sacks of grain as their ration (they’d demanded 5 ½ sacks each). The foreman Khonsu told them accept it, then go down to the market and tell the Vizier’s children about it.

Amennakhte (who again, is writing this scroll) stopped them and said NOT to go to the market since they’d been paid and if they did, he’d have to have them arrested. He doesn’t mention they were only paid a third of what they were owed.

First month of summer, Day 13, passes the guard post saying “We are hungry” and continued their sit in. They shouted at the mayor of Thebes as he passed, who then got them 50 sacks of grain to tide them over until Pharoah paid them.

That’s the end of this particular scroll, but there’s evidence that strikes continued throughout the reign of Ramses III as there are records of more workers being hired to transport food and supplies to the workers.

The scroll also leaves out some of what happened in between dates. For example, it wasn’t one single long strike, but a series of them. After they were paid their wages the first time, the workers went back to work.

However, they were told that was their pay for the third month of winter and not the second so they wouldn’t be getting paid again, sparking the second strike that lasted into summer.

There’s also a big deal in Egyptian culture at the time called “Ma’at” or basically “The Order of Things”. Nobody had any idea what to do with the striking workers because workers weren’t supposed to strike. They were supposed to work.

Sure, they were treated well and the village of Deir el-Medina lived at what could be called middle-class standards for the time period, but they weren’t supposed to rebel against their betters in this way. It was unthinkable.

There was also a big festival coming up to celebrate the 30th year of the reign of Ramses III and a lot of the government officials were focused on that, more concerned with maintaining order than actually managing the country.

I should also note I paint Amennakhte as on the side of the government rather than the workers when the opposite was likely the case. The strike wasn’t recorded in the official government records as Egypt tended to cover up their losses.

That said, we do have some records like those of Amennakhte showing that, once the workers realized they had the power to organize, they used it all the way through the New Kingdom.

The last entry on the scroll doesn’t directly involve the strike, but is related. On the first month of summer, Day 16, one of the workmen provided evidence that government officials were stealing from the tombs.

One of them, Weserhat, was one of the ministers who shorted the workers payment previously. The other, Pentaweret, may be the son of Ramses III at the center of the “Harem Conspiracy”, an assassination plot that took place between 1 to 3 years later.

In summary, the workers were unpaid due to corruption and management enriching themselves, they went on strike, management threw them a pizza party, that didn’t work, and they eventually got their demands.

Though I guess if you want to be completely accurate, it was more “donuts/cupcakes in the breakroom”…

#egypt #ramses iii #ramesses iii #labor rights #strike #pizza party #donuts in the breakroom #union #union strong #Also before anyone says this is Ramses III not the Pharaoh of Exodus #That was Ramses II almost a century earlier and a completely different dynasty #Not going to open the can of worms that is archeological evidence (or lack thereof) supporting biblical accounts of history #But either way the events are unrelated as they were 70-100 years after Exodus would have been #ancient egypt #ancient history

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fayes-fics · 1 year ago

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It Had To Be You: Epilogue - Wonderful You

Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: How would you sum up your love story?

artwork credit @colettebronte

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f) cunnilingus. Err, there is also some swearing and soppy stuff, too.

Word Count: 1.5k

Author's Note: A multi-chapter modern rom-com retelling of When Harry Met Sally. This is the little decorative bow I wanted to wrap up this fic up with. If you've seen the original film, you know there are vox pops between 'chapters' where couples tell their love stories. This is my tribute to/explanation of that in this AU. Thanks to @colettebronte for betaing. Thank you again for reading this story, I hope you all enjoy this smidge of filth and humour! <3

When his phone lights up and vibrates on the pillow next to yours for the third time, the name HY flashing bright, you reluctantly realise you have to say something.

You slide one hand down under the covers to shake his shoulder lightly. “Ben…. Ben, your phone…” you stutter, not wanting to do anything to stop the wondrous sensations coursing through your body, but concern overrides your want for pleasure.

“I'm doing some of my best work here, you know…” he protests silkily, muffled against your body, curling his tongue around your clit in a way that makes your knees tremble and goosebumps break out over your limbs.

“Ngggg, fuck, I know you are, baby,” you moan, “but this is the third time it’s ringing, and now you’ve got a big text pop-up saying SOS…” you stumble out.

There is a rustling of sheets, and his handsome face appears, glistening with your arousal in the ray of Mediterranean sun that cuts across the bed.

“Whoever is interrupting us better have a damn good reason; they all know this is our honeymoon,” he grumbles, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and crawling up over you, pecking a kiss onto the tip of your nose before reaching for his phone. As he does, it starts vibrating in his hand again.

“What?” he answers gruffly, in the way only siblings ever greet each other.

You watch as he pulls a variety of faces that make you giggle, pinned under him, his erection pressed distractingly into your left thigh.

“Hy…,” he groans after a bit, dropping his forehead onto your sternum. “How does any of this constitute an SOS?” he sighs wearily.

You can tell her answer is sarcastic by the strains of voice you hear from the phone as it's pressed against his ear.

“The answer, I'm sure, is yes, we will, and now, will you please leave us alone? We are busy…” he says pointedly. “...That's entirely none of your business,” he adds curtly after a beat.

You can easily surmise she guessed precisely what you are doing, and you chuckle. Benedict tilts his head up and shoots you a laden smirk that has you scraping your nails over the nape of his neck and into his luscious, thick hair, canting your body up into him and mewling softly as a hint.

“I'm hanging up now…” he warns, appearing to do just that as his little sister is midsentence.

“What does she want us to do?” you query, turning your head to kiss the flexing bicep that carries his weight as he tosses his phone aside.

He shuffles lower, his lips closing around your nipple, sucking insistently, making you arch under him and gasp.

“She wants us to appear in some documentary she is making,” he explains laconically, his fingers wrapping around the dip of your waist as his breath ghosts warm over the saliva he left, pursing his lips and blowing gently, watching your areola pucker under his attention.

You are rapidly losing the ability to give a shit in this moment but decide to get a little more information before you succumb. “What sort of documentary?”

“Couples talking to camera about their love story,” he hums, swapping to give your other breast the same wonderful treatment.

“She wants our story?” you frown distractedly, slightly non-plussed, running your fingertips along the play of his back muscles as he moves.

“Oh, come on darling, even you have to admit it reads like a film script,” he chuckles, rubbing the tip of his nose over the swell of your breast. “Twelve years, broken relationships, friends, not friends, both of us being idiots for entirely too long…” he trails off as he begins to wind his way back down your body, dropping hot kisses onto your diaphragm and belly.

“Oi,” you protest weakly, “I was not an idiot; I was merely cautious…”

“Sure, my love, a cautious idiot,” he amends, pushing your thighs open around his shoulders unseen under the sheets.

“Fair point…” you concede before crying out as he once again unfurls that magical tongue.

—

“How many couples are you interviewing for this?” you ask as Hyacinth fiddles with a microphone that will be out of shot on the coffee table in front of you.

It is three weeks later, and you are sitting on a two-seater sofa in a nondescript warehouse somewhere in Ealing—a digital camera and lots of bright lights trained on you. It all feels slightly unnerving, making you nervously pick at a tiny fleck of lint on your trousers.

“Oh, about ten or twelve, all sorts of ages and backgrounds,” she elucidates, obviously proud of what she is pulling together for her graduate film project.

“Why did you want us?” you inquire, genuinely intrigued.

“Well, your story is bloody fascinating, and I wanted to have at least one love story from my own family,” she explains. “I tried Kate and Anthony, but they bickered the whole time about what the truth of their story is. Then they started the tonsil tennis. It was too weird, even for me,” she shrugs.

“What do you want us to say?” Benedict checks, attempting to smooth his wayward curl of forehead hair that is always there, doing its own thing.

“Just go with the flow. Be truthful. Say whatever comes to mind; we can always go again,” she answers somewhat nebulously, rounding behind the camera as you exchange uncertain looks. “And ACTION!!” she calls suddenly.

“The first time we met, we hated each other,” Benedict begins.

“No,” you immediately interject, “you didn’t hate me; I hated you. The second time we met, you didn't even remember me!” you argue.

“I did, too! I remembered you! I approached you on the train,” he points out. “The third time we met, we became friends,” he smiles, wrapping a hand around your knee and shooting you a loving glance.

“We were friends for a long time,” you adjoin, nodding, before adding honestly, “Aaaaand then we weren't.”

“And then we fell in love,” Benedict drawls, his tone laden with affection. “Three months later, and we are married!” he holds up his left hand, proudly displaying his shiny new wedding ring.

“It only took three months,” you nod in agreement, then pause, “well… twelve years and three months…”

“We had a really wonderful wedding,” he comments, turning and smiling crookedly at you.

“It really was,” you agree, grinning back.

“It was great. We had a band with salsa dancing,” he explains, leaning into you fractionally.

“Yes, lots of salsa dancing,” you concur, hooking your chin onto his shoulder as he turns his head fully toward you, you matching his little knowing smile, wanting nothing more than to draw him into a kiss.

“Ok… CUT!!” Hyacinth calls.

“What was wrong with that?” he checks, reluctantly peeling his gaze from you to his sister.

“Urgh, you are as bad as Anthony,” she rolls her eyes. “Let's try again, but this time, you know, maybe a bit more story and a shade less mushy?” she suggests.

“Mushy?” Benedict echoes, his brow knitting. “How am I supposed to talk about my wife, the love of my life, and not be ‘mushy’?” he appends with air quotes, as if what he just said casually is not the sweetest thing ever… and makes you want to mount him instantly.

“Y/n, stop eye-fucking my brother,” Hyacinth sighs.

It’s your turn to whip around to her and look indignant. “I am not!”

“Please…” she withers, arching a single eyebrow, and you slouch down a little, realising you are being entirely called out.

“Okay, fine. But tell him to stop doing the same,” you mumble.

“Believe me, I’m trying,” she answers, fiddling with one of the lamps trained on you. “Now okay from the top,” she says. “I liked it until you got to the salsa dancing bit. Please, let's not cover that; it's obviously a trigger topic for both of your hormones,” she eye rolls.

“What do you want us to talk about then?” he shrugs.

“Tell me more about the very first day you met,” she proposes, then circles her finger silently to show she’s recording again.

“So it's the last day of university in the depths of Scotland, and both of us are driving to London...” he starts.

“Excuse me, I was driving my car to London; you very much hitched a ride,” you interrupt again.

“Please, it was your mum’s car. And you refused to give me a Malteser,” he disputes, pouting at you.

“Really? It's been twelve years. And still with the Malteser thing? You could have brought your own, you know,” you remonstrate logically.

“And you could have tried not to make me crash into a bus shelter, but here we are…,” he argues back, shooting you a sideways look that is all challenge and heat—it makes you want to strip him bare.

You can't help it; you lean in and capture his lips this time.

“For fuck’s sake, not these two as well,” Hyacinth mutters, head slumping into her hands.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies

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