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sicutpuella · 3 months ago

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Sweet Like Honey | Simon Riley x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have I made you happy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mediterranean sunlight crept through the curtains like liquid gold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All photos sourced through Pinterest

Headers made by @rookthornesartistry

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jzprncess · 6 days ago

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threads of the past ౨ৎ

pairing : charles leclerc x reader

faceclaim : various people

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

part 1

word count : 3,989

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Promise,” he said firmly.

But life had other plans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few weeks later, everything changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, something was missing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the letter

My Dearest Y/N,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With all my heart, Mom

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

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

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

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communicationthroughlyrics · 4 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 · 9 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 · 3 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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airybcby · 5 days ago

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

( rin itoshi x fem! reader )

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

♡ word count — 1k

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

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

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

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

Until you showed up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That spot belonged to Sae, and Sae alone.

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

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

“Loud and clear.”

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

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

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

The lights went out, and the race began.

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

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

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

By Lap 60, the pressure cracked.

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

“I’m not waiting,” Rin snapped.

“Rin—”

He went for it.

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

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

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

But he wasn’t.

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

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

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to check on you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

He was just Rin.

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

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

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

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

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

But this one isn’t yours to share.

And you had to learn how to live with that.

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

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

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

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probablyasocialecologist · 6 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 · 8 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 · 2 months 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 · 8 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 · 3 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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fatehbaz · 5 days ago

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Who gets to be human? On Black geographies, damned people living in inhospitable places, other ways of knowing and being, and racist legacy of European academic epistemologies.

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The idea of the plantation is migratory. [...] Past colonial encounters created material and imaginative geographies that reified global segregations through “damning” the spaces long occupied by Man's human others. Here, damning can be understood in two interlocking ways: as a fencing in and as a condemnation of racial-sexual difference. The uninhabitable - in particular, the landmasses occupied by those who, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, were unimaginable, both spatially and corporeally - is the geographic (non)location through which the plantation emerged. From Caliban's “uninhabited” island in Shakespeare's The Tempest, to the regions within Africa identified as too hot to be livable, the landmasses deemed uninhabitable presented a geographic predicament upon “discovery.” [...] [A] "new symbolic construct of race," which coincided with post-1492 colonial arrangements, organized much of the world according to a racial logic. [...] The colonial enactment of geographic knowledge mapped “a normal way of life” through measuring different degrees of humanness and attaching different versions of the human to different places. […] [I]n the sites of toxicity, environmental decay, pollution […] inhabited by impoverished communities […] the [current] geographies of the racial other are emptied out of life precisely because the historical constitution of these geographies has cast them as lands of no one. So in our present moment, some live in the unlivable, and to live in the unlivable condemns the geographies of marginalized to death over and over again. Life, then, is extracted from particular regions […]. If we believe that the city [the prison, the resort, other "postcolonial spaces"] is the commercial expression of the plantation and its marginalized masses, and that the plantation is a persistent but ugly blueprint of our contemporary spatial troubles, Wynter's essay asks that we seek out secretive histories […]. [R]acial violence haunts, [...] the struggles we face, intellectually, are a continuation of plantation narratives that dichotimize geographies into us/them and hide secretive histories that undo the teleological [...] underpinnings of [colonial, imperial, modern] spatiality.

Text by: Katherine McKittrick. “Plantation Futures.” Small Axe, Volume 17, Number 3, November 2013 (No. 42), pages 1-15. [Emphasis mine.]

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Registering the marine world as central to the making of modernity - from slave ships and sea-borne empires to container logistics and the industrialized extraction of its resources (from fish to fossil fuels) - we encounter the constant of colonialism in the haunting racism that produces the violent grammar of inhospitality, today etched on the body of the contemporary migrant. [...] This is to interrupt and rework Occidental historiography, sociology, and philosophy, and to puncture their faith in rendering the world transparent to their will. […] Promoting the instability of critical language is to take responsibility for what Achille Mbembe calls the becoming-black of the world: where the production of subjection provokes alternative knowledge, practices, and politics […]. Today the increasing use of drones in the Mediterranean as part of the technology of governance marks the latest abandonment of social responsibility to the bio-surveillance of unwanted bodies and discarded lives. Smart borders take migrants far below the category of “bare life,” [...] and extends the racial profiling written into the historical premises that betray their deep incubation in the refusal to register the languages and limits of the white myths [...]. From the Black Atlantic to the Black Mediterranean: seas of dispossession and unbelonging have constantly demonstrated the political, juridical, and onto-epistemological limits of modernity. They promote a constant critique of the epistemic foundations of Western [colonial "liberalism"]. Those on the water, the wretched of the sea, the damned [...], who cannot source their identity in the territory of the nation-state, are without rights. They have no social [...] validity. [...] Yet they simultaneously [...] exist, persist, and resist. [...] The algorithm sputters in the dark while cut-up, bricolage, collage, and montage work the critical gaps [...]. The archives unwind to expose other computations of time and further folds in space: the promise of foreign cartographies [...].

Text by: Iain Chambers. A section by Chambers in the essay co-authored by Tiziana Terranova and Iain Chambers. “Technology, Postcoloniality, and the Mediterranean.” e-flux Journal Issue #123. December 2021. [Emphasis mine.]

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[T]he framing of the inhumanities forces a reckoning with the humanist liberal subject that orders the humanities: an invisible and indivisible white subject position [...]. In Césaire’s (2000 [1972]) Discourse on Colonialism, he suggested that “at the very time when it most often mouths the word, the West has never been further from being able to live a true humanism [...]”. In another searing critique of [White, European, liberal/colonial] humanism, Fanon (1961) tied the unrealized figure of a true humanism to the earth, as a wretched counterpoint, whereby the inhuman residues of the colonial project abide as discarded matter […]. Those blackened colonial afterlives in “modernity’s project of unfreedom” (Walcott 2014, 94) are still very much present in the political geologies of climate change vulnerabilities, the wasting effects of racial capitalism, and neo-extractivist economies […]. The narrative arc of humanism, Scott (2000) suggested in conversation with Wynter, is often told as a kind of European coming-of-age story. […] The Anthropocene discourse follows the same coming-of-age humanist script [...]. Sylvia Wynter, W.E.B. DuBois, and Achille Mbembe all showed how that genealogy of man [as universal concept] was underscored by the racial division of life and nonlife. […] In its simplest iteration, there are forms of life on one side and nonlife on the other; nonlife that is constituted through death, and more recently in Mbembe and Povinelli’s writing through forms of social death, exhaustion, and extinguishment, wherein nonlife emerges as a zone of governance. The gravitational pull that centers these divisions between life and nonlife is the human subject as it is conceived through a Western normative frame [...]. As new forms of racialized beings were articulated through sixteenth- through nineteenth-century paleontology in the context of colonialism, geology was also articulating new origins of the earth, as well as forming the material praxis of their rearrangement (through mining, ecological rearrangements and extractions, and forms of geologic displacements such as plantations, dams, fertilizers, crops, and introduction of “alien” animals). [...] Historically, this normative sphere of humanism was racist and specifically antiblack, and without challenging that history, it remains so, every time the universal or human is invoked. Some of the greatest challenges, of course, came from anticolonial thinkers struggling to make sense of their painful histories in their fullest terms, such as Fanon (1959, 1961), Césaire, Glissant, C. L. R. James and Wynter. As Wynter (2000) commented, “The degradation of concrete humans, that was/is the price of empire, of the kind of humanism that underlies it” (154). For Wynter (2000), “what is called the West [...] begins with the founding of post-1492 Caribbean” (152). Wynter challenged the geographical imaginary that the Americas and Caribbean are somehow an epistemological outside to Western knowledge […].

Text by: Kathryn Yusoff. “The Inhumanities.” Annals of the American Association of Geographers, Volume 11, Issue 3. November 2020. [Emphasis mine.]

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But what becomes of the native-occupied “uninhabitable” zones is a geo-racial reorganization. The “new symbolic construct of race,” which coincided with post-1492 colonial arrangements, was spatially organized according to a new […] logic. […] That is, the uninhabitable […] is underscored by racial and sexual differences. To transform the [land] […], and make this transformation profitable, the land must become a site of racial-sexual regulation, a geography that maps “a normal way of life” […] This is expressed through uneven geographies: spatial arrangements [...]. The inhabitability [...] also produces [...] forms of geographic nonexistence, which differ from what was assumed was "not there." [...] [W]hat Edouard Glissant describes as the "real but long unnoticed" places [...]: cultural sharings, new poetics, new ways of being [...]. Those who occupy the spaces of Otherness are always already encountering space and therefore articulate how genres or modes of humanness are intimately connected to where we/they are ontologically as well as geographically. To return to an earlier discussion, spaces of Otherness are “palpitating with life.” [...]

Text by: Katherine McKittrick. “Demonic Grounds: Sylvia Wynter.” Demonic Grounds: Black Women and The Cartographies of Struggle. 2006. [Emphasis mine.]

#sorry doing this in breakroom at work #tidalectics #black methodologies #really want to also place next to this my summaries of an laura stolers writing on imperialist nostalgia and academic anthropology #as sometimes functioning basically imperial intellectual tourism or entertainment but stuck at work and cant find and edit them #ecologies #multispecies #katherine mckittrick #abolition #kathryn yusoff #geographic imaginaries #indigenous pedagogies #fred moten

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