#precarious labour

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Gaspe Fishermen Face Starvation,” Montreal Star. November 11, 1932. Page 21. --- Failure of Catch and Potato Crop Causes Serious Situation ---- QUEBEC, Nov 11— (Star Special) —A number of fishing settlements in the Gaspe region are facing starvation during the coming winter, due to the failure of the fishing season and ruin of the potato crop through rain. 

Things are worse than has been stated up to now, and in one village alone, it is reported a family of nine existed on nothing but three loaves of bread for an entire week. 

Potatoes have always been one of the staple foods for fishermen during the winter months and in former years the harvest has been abundant but now fishing villages, such as Paspebiac, are importing potatoes from Prince Edward Island, a thing unheard of in the past. As there la very little money, fisherman are wondering what they are going to do when it has gone and they cannot purchase anything.

“Inhabitant of  cities and towns do not know what privation and hardship is," it was stated this morning by Hon.John Hall Kelley, Legislative Counselor who recently returned from the Gaspe region. "Why, only this summer I saw a man doing a hard day work whose only food for luncheon was' raw cucumber. And yet they never complain." r

PULPWOOD SITUATION The only thing that can save a number of the villages from being practically wiped out is the possibility of disposing of pulpwood and ‘umber that is lying idle on the land, and to that end, negotiations are under way between the interested parties.

 Another thing that will help the fisherfolk to a certain extent is the operation by limit holders during the coming winter of their holdings and thus enabling a certain number of men to get employment and earn a few dollars. If the limits are operated, it will mean that some thousands of men will be engaged. Limit-holders will wait upon the Government In the near future to ask for a reduction In ground-rents and stumpage dues.

[theconceptofkidney]

we've finished reading an academic text on neoliberalism. i need the FMI to explode

[jacesvelaryons]

Can you write something about Jacaerys velaryon x targaryen wife reader

Where she gives birth to a baby that looks like jace and it bothered alicent but they don't care? :3

Saving Face (Jacaerys Velaryon x Targtower!Reader)

(a/n): i’m sorry this request took over a year but my, what a great idea! i hope you like it

word count: 3.0k

summary: with what was supposed to be a happy moment in the new chapter of your family with jacaerys, only wounds linger when your mother is unhappy with your child's appearance.

warnings: slight angst, family tensions, complicated family relationships, implied incest (the targaryen way), not alicent hightower friendly

request status: OPEN

The joy of his newborn child is nearly eclipsed by the fear that his beloved would be called to face the same humiliation his mother endured upon his birth.

Even in distress, his beautiful wife still looked otherworldly silver hair spun in gold, and with her pale lavender eyes, he would not have that ginger sucker of joy to rob him from this life changing celebration. His relief that his beloved survived the precarious birth, worried about her lithe frame and the prostration it weighed on her during the pregnancy.

His little boy, his beloved son, a fragment of the other half of soul and his own. He is perfect, with his ten little toes and fingers, and he is all his.

Jacaerys is thankful his mother was in the birthing room with him and his wife, breaking protocol (as always) to be with the mother as she went into labour. Without her, he thinks he would’ve been hysterical and lost his mind without her guiding hand and comforting presence in seeing Y/N in distress.

“Where is my mother?” Y/N cradles the babe to her breast, as he suckled in his mother’s warmth and he feels his heart drop to his stomach as her face contorted in disappointment.

The child yearned for nourishment, and the midwives guided the young mother so she could feed the child with her milk.

The Dowager Queen remained unyielding even as her step-daughter arose as Queen, and she was still given some privileges even with her dispute with his mother. The marriage of Jacaerys and Y/N, her youngest daughter, was made as a desperate attempt to patch the two sides together and make peace as his mother sat on the Iron Throne.

Her mother attended the wedding, wearing a dark muted forest green that still appeared obsidian in certain angles, but the flame patterns could not be missed on her gown.

A mockery indeed as if she did not accept his mother’s ascendance to the throne and wanted her small rebellions in forms of cloth, he would not grant her the satisfaction of his reaction, for the sake of the realm and his wife, her daughter. It would be too scandalous to do so.

When his beloved was called abed, all pretense of dignity and calm collapsed underneath him. Whatever confident front he had broke apart as fear consumed him, sweat dripping from his forehead, hands shaking, heart beating wildly as he realized his wife was to cross the barrier between life and death to birth their child.

Seeing Y/N’s clean white robes stained the bed in scarlet as she quickens and the pain increases as the babe nears reminds him of the chills whenever he walks the path from the princess’ chambers to the queen’s, the same path forged in blood when his mother then Princess Rhaenyra, the crown princess and heir to the Throne, had to face the humiliation called upon by her stepmother, now Queen Dowager Alicent.

His blood boils when he sees the auburn former queen walk that path meekly nowadays on her way to see her daughter, as if it was all an act when she had pulled rank and caused so much suffering to his beloved mother. Jacaerys fears his wife, now the Princess of Dragonstone will have to walk those same halls, perform the same walk of shame and mummery with all the courtiers of the Keep to bear witness.

There is no possibility he will allow her to endure the same, he would bring fire and blood to all of Westeros shall she have to face that, yet it brings him relief when he reminds himself that woman is no longer Queen but his mother is, Queen of her own right and first of her name, and yet all the same, that woman is also his mother-in-law, mother to his darling. And grandmother to the child that shares his blood.

Jacaerys never left the side of his wife even when her birth continued onto the hour of the wolf, his hands intertwined with her own, assuring kisses on her temple and cheek and encouraging her when she would cry she wanted to relent. Across from him stood his mother, whose locks resembled her half sister and his wife, an experienced mother who has felt such joy and such sorrow too, with a maternal comfort gained with experience.

He would not allow a woman filled with hate to the brim in her heart to rob him of the joys of fatherhood and the relief of his wife safe and sound after such birth to their babe. Jace felt relief like no other when he began to see the dark haired head of the child crowning, and the guttural, final scream she exerted as the child exited her womb.

Jacaerys comforted and whispered assurances of gratitude and encouragement to his lady wife, that she be reminded how grateful he was of her efforts to grow their family, of her devotion and love for him, and fulfilling her duty with nothing but grace, peppering kisses all over her flushed face.

As he caressed the fine hair of his child much like own while he fed from his mother’s breast, his elated expression dropped as if in a chilling reminder when she asked for her mother. As despicable as that woman was, he could not deny her wishes if it brought her reprieve. Jace smiled and promised her that she would be coming and has been informed of the birth of her new grandchild.

When Y/N was beyond earshot, he approached the young midwife with a hardened gait, grinding through his teeth. “If the Dowager Queen wishes to see the prince, she will make her way here herself. She can walk, can she not?!"

While his wife was preoccupied and in isolation during the last few months of the pregnancy, Jace had made efforts to convince his mother to move the Lady Alicent to the second floor below the palace where the current royal family lived. “To remind her of what she’s done to us and may feel the pain we have endured.” He told Queen Rhaenyra, who was hesitant but accepted afterwards.

Jacaerys marched his way outside the ornate doors where his wife and their babe rested, raising his chin and standing with his chest puffed out, a cold indifferent expression, back straightened and fists clenched white as his wife’s mother made her way up the stairs with difficulty.

In the years since her queenship, the then young queen had begun to develop striking pain all over her body, especially down her spine and legs no matter what the maesters or foreign healers would advise. Jacaerys thought it was fitting for when he would make his mother walk up with him and his newborn siblings, bleeding across the hallways and staircases due to the green queen’s attempt to humiliate them.

Perhaps he is his mother’s son, as diplomatic, gracious, intelligent and cunning as he may be, grudges linger.

He could hear a pin drop as the auburn haired woman nearly stumbled down the final stairs and tripped over her gown, with a few septas rushing over to assist her but he showed no commiseration.

The doors swung open as Alicent limped towards her daughter’s bedside, slightly softening in consolation her daughter was safe in childbirth and the child was kicking like a goat.

“Praise the Mother, my girl.” She brushed her blood-smeared fingers over her silver hair shakily, whispering. He did not miss the glimpse of disappointment when she noticed the dark brown hair of the child, even when the boy had her pale lavender eyes.

Alicent cleared her throat, avoiding the gaze of those around her. “I see that the prince strongly resembles his father.”

Jacaerys’ eyes narrowed in suspicion, instinctively reaching towards the pommel of his Valyrian steel sword. “Is that supposed to be a problem, Dowager?” He stomped forward, hovering above his wife and child.

“Not at all, my prince. He is a handsome boy-”

Queen Rhaenyra noticed the tension beginning to develop and interrupted with a smile. “She means no ill, Jacaerys. Merely an observation.”

“An observation?! She wished to have us named as bastards to replace you as heir with one of her spawns and humiliate you.” He raised his voice, accusatory at his mother’s former adversary, and he could feel Lucerys next to him, pulling him away to calm him.

His wife Y/N, exhausted and delirious from the birth, began to grow pale and overwhelmed from the commotion around her, just as her babe broke out in tears and wailed. The Queen ordered everyone but Jacaerys to exit the room and give the family their space. The door shut with a thunderous thud.

…

Hours later, the midwives finished cleaning up the afterbirth, bathed and cleaned the lady and the child before they both fell asleep in new linen sheets and fed.

Jacaerys never left his young family’s side, despondent he had lost his cool, distressing his family during a vulnerable moment, turning what should have been a celebration into an altercation.

He cringed as he could only imagine what the murmurs and whispers about his behaviour and the events that followed with his wife’s mother would share about him. He had brought this upon himself and his family.

AS Y/N began waking from her first rest since the labours, he turned to her as soon as he could hear her rise from her sheets, reaching for her hands in his.

“I have failed you, wife. I should have protected you but I have only raised in anger over old wounds and created altercations when I should have.” Jacaerys felt his tears brim, cheeks red with ignominy and shame.

Her eyes fluttered awake, still weary from the long delivery but visibly more rested already. She shook her head in understanding with an enervated sigh.

“I understand your relationship with my mother has been tense, for what she had done to Her Grace and your family. But I can assure her she has changed, if she is not with me, she is on the knees at the Sept begging for forgiveness and giving alms-”

“She looked at our son the same way she used to look at me and my brothers as children, when she would use her tongue to call us bastards! I fear she will do the same to you and the boy. What good will alms do if she still wishes to see me and our son six feet under ground for the colour of our hair!?” Jacaerys exclaimed, lips quivering in fear as he felt tears brim in his eyes.

Y/N brought their son closer to her arms, only comforted by the sight of her child and her beloved.

“I will handle her, trust me. She thinks I do not pay attention to these things, but I do.” She reaches her free hand to his, unmoving to not wake the babe and squeezes his larger palms into her own.

Jacaerys sniffles, wiping his tears with his sleeve. “I do not wish to drive you apart from your mother, my love. I only worry about you and our family’s safety, and the throne. That you and our son may not suffer on my behalf.”

Their son had just begun to fall asleep in her arms, and she began bouncing him instinctively, quickly gaining the ropes of what it took to be a good mother. Jacaerys knew she would be nothing like her own mother, eagerly learning from his mother Queen Rhaenyra, speaking with other royal and noble mothers and even listening to wet nurses and nannies on how to rear children best.

“Are you sure you can handle this conversation? Would you like me outside or in the room with you?” He asks with uncertainty, not entirely confident with his wife even with her own mother.

The wife of the heir to the Iron Throne and Princess of Dragonstone nods fiercely. “You forget I am a dragon too. We do not bow to these snakes that suck from their prey.”

…

In the overmorrow on the first day of spring, Y/N had just put her son in his cradle, handcrafted in limestone and marble with seahorses and dragons, lined with sheets of silk with pearls and aquamarines, befitting the future King, and the scion of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon.

She hummed as she watched him sleep, having gone through feeding him herself to the surprise of the wet nurses she had followed through, unlike most royalty. She swore she would leave nursing and care to others if she had no other choice.

Underneath sat the hearth of the magenta and mauve swirled dragon egg surrounded by pieces of coal, emitting whirls of smoke that signified the life alive in those eggs. The egg was special as it was the first from her young ride, a nervous flighty thing who only managed to hatch when she found out she was expecting herself, rarely only having one dragon when most on Dragonstone laid many.

As she hums old Valyrian nursery hymns from the crypts of ancient Valyrian text retrieved from the tombs of the Keep’s libraries, she recognizes the steps of her mother without a glimpse.

In her jade hued robes, Lady Alicent was quaint yet undaunted to remind the court of her former standing as once the queen who ruled these halls. A black veil hid part of her auburn hair that turned to flames in certain lighting.

Her mother grimaces with a smile that does not reach her eyes, but relief is painted all over her being. “You are well, daughter? I presume so is the babe.”

Y/N curtly interrupts her. “The babe is your grandson, my child when I am your flesh and blood, mother. Most importantly, he is the future heir to the throne, second in line to my husband.”

Alicent frantically fidgets with her fingers, tugging at her old emerald rings in consternation.

“Of course, yes. His name, Aemon, is fitting for a future monarch.” She could hear the strain in her mother’s words, laced with lies. All her life she had learned those sealed with malice and deceit.

“You forget yourself, mother. My husband and my children are of the blood of the dragon, as do I. You do not understand the ways of the dragon, in your jealousy of wanting to unseat my sister and put Aegon on the throne. Your attempts to disgrace and dispossess my future husband and his brothers has brought the Stranger hanging over mine and my own son’s head!” Y/N chides in betrayal, voice tinged with disbelief her mother would do such a thing.

“Y/N-”

“I could not believe you, mother, that you still harbour such ill will after many years. My marriage with Jacaerys should have buried whatever disagreements you may have had with Queen Rhaenyra, but you value imbuing hate and division on this house more than choosing the peace and stability of this kingdom!”

“Your husband and your son are unbecoming of what Targaryen princes are supposed to look like-” The Dowager attempted to reason, but was impeded as her daughter held an imposing hand towards her.

“Unbecoming? Have you not glimpsed into a mirror? You are nothing of what a Targaryen queen should be, a mere second son’s daughter who brought nothing of value to the throne, and only sought discord to advance her family. Who replaced the Targaryen tapestries with ones of the Seven in hopes of bringing your radicalism to the rest of the kingdom!”

Guards barge in the doors of the babe’s nursery, their armour and swords clattering loudly in the quiet hall.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Y/N coldly turns away from her mother, even as she frowned the same way she would. “By order of the Princess of Dragonstone with the seal of approval of the Prince of Dragonstone and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,

I order your arrest for treason, and insubordination not only for your past grievances but your efforts to call my son a bastard. You will be stripped of your privileges of Queen Dowager, and turned into a septa who will serve the Seven for all her days.”

The former queen is astonished, struggling among the grips of the soldiers who surround her. “Daughter, you are mistaken, please do not do this to me. For all I have sacrificed for this realm and for your father, you must understand why I am the way I am.” She pleaded on her knees, hands clasped as she cried for mercy.

“No, you have served your ambitions and my late grandsire’s treacherous longing for power and the throne, that you would put the Hightower banners and replace Targaryen customs with the Seven and southern ways, that you would tear the kingdom apart for it. I have given you too many chances, forgiving you and turning the cheek in hopes you have accepted it and at least been happy for me, but I am a fool. I am not as forgiving as my father was to your digressions!”

Y/N paced slowly around her mother, sorrow on her face, but no regret or forgiveness.

“You are lucky I will not be putting you in a cell, because for better or for worse, you are still the mother who birthed me. But you would understand, there is nothing a mother would do to grant protection to her children.”

The princess dazed into the window, grasping onto the rails as she heard her mother being dragged out the halls and stripped of her royal ordinances. She could feel herself biting into her nails nervously after years of no longer doing so.

Jacaerys sauntered carefully, approaching his wife with comfort, rubbing her shoulders and bringing her into his arms, looking down at their son as he slept.

“Was I not too cruel, Jace?” She whimpered, weeping into his arms as she was devastated at whether treating her own kin in such a way was a fatal mistake.

He rests his chin on the top of her head before pressing kisses on her temple. “I understand why this troubles you, wife. As abominable and misguided she was, you still are her blood, her daughter.”

She glimpsed at her son, cooing at him as he quietly sleeps. “As a mother, I want to be nothing like her. My son will never be safe while she is around.”

[metamatar]

theres zero contradiction between social welfare for the citizen and brutality for the non citizen idk why people pretend there is. its great for the us to destroy any attempts to improve labour conditions in the third world bc it keeps consumer prices low for them to import. its great for the us that the rest of the world remains desperately poor and/or bombed out so they'll attempt to flee to the us and work shitty jobs on temporary visas if even that and put up with precarious labour conditions. its great for the us to have a lever on oil prices by having an outpost in the middle east to exert influence on rogue parties.

the us military isnt so big bc lockheed martin likes rentseeking and it creates a jobs it has a much bigger economic purpose: to give the us power that remains difficult to challenge – nobody can touch israel as long as the us backs it.

[itsgodepi]

First Loser | MV1

Summary: In the wake of a disastrous race, you're caught under the media's unforgiving glare. Your every move and word being dissected for days on end as you simply try to navigate your rookie year in Formula One. It is just your luck that your opponent in this fiasco is none other than the famously outspoken Max Verstappen, whose relentless jabs only add to your frustrations.  Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader Word Count: 8k Warnings: accident, anxiety, enemies to lovers Also on AO3

The air rushes into your lungs with ragged intensity, each inhale a searing burn that seems to set your chest aflame. The tight straps of the safety belt only exacerbate the struggle, constricting your breathing while your hands uselessly claw at the buckle. Muscles so unbelievably stiff that every movement make it feel like needles are digging into your skin.  

You force your eyes open, vision swimming in a blur of unrecognizable shapes and distorted shadows. Blood is surging through your veins like molten lava, pooling into a searing knot at the center of your chest. It pounds furiously against your ribs, each thunderous beat reverberating through the tempest of thoughts that swirl uncontrollably in your mind. 

You’re out. Done. Everything you worked for, everything you hoped for, slipping through your fingers like sand. 

Frustration boils over, erupting into raw, unchecked rage. You slam your foot down on the pedals with every ounce of strength you can muster, your fists pounding against the nearest surface with resounding thuds. The sounds are deafening in the confined space of the cockpit, a violent release that leaves your hands stinging and a wave of dizziness washing over you. 

A sigh slides through your lips. What are you even doing? You are too out of it. 

You slump back into the seat, your resolve crumbling as fatigue overwhelms you. The battle to keep your eyes open only intensifying the pounding in your head. What’s the point anyway? The scene before you is devastating —barriers looming over your side, a twisted wheel perched precariously on the hood of your car, and just ahead, a dark Formula One car buried in the gravel. 

That fucking Red Bull. 

Tears begin to pool in your eyes as the adrenaline that once chased the away slowly drains, leaving behind a trembling mess. It’s done. The pressure in your chest tightens with each passing second, the fabric over your cheeks dampening with disappointment. In yourself, in your choices, in everything that led you to this very moment. At least this stupid helmet shields you from the outside world, from the screams of the crowd and unattainable promises. The only thing protecting you as you break down. It was so close. 

The sound of a revving engine slices through your tears, yanking you back to the harsh reality of the moment. To your fate. Your hand instinctively grasps the wheel as the static in your ears begins to fade.  

“Are you okay?” the repeated message crackles over the radio, each time louder than the last, ringing in your ears. The race engineer’s voice is tinged with urgency, and you realize he must have been asking this since you first grazed the track limits. 

You struggle to articulate a response, your jaw muscles aching from being clenched so tightly during the crash. “Yes, I... Yeah, it’s okay” the faint voice that escapes your lips barely recognizable, even to you. Blame your laboured breath or the tears sliding non-stop down your cheeks for making you talk like you haven’t pronounced a word in months. 

The radio comes alive once again, interferences cutting into the race engineer’s words, though his relief is evident. More time than you expected must have gone by; silence is never a good sign in these situations.  

You can't quite decipher his exact message over the noise, but you push past the fog in your mind to respond “I’m alright, the car started—” 

However, your train of thought is abruptly interrupted by the sight of the other protagonist of the crash. Seeing him climbing out of the wreckage of his car, seemingly unscathed despite the severity of the collision, filling you with profound relief, momentarily silencing your racing thoughts. 

The sight of Max approaching your car pulls you further from the fog of your own distress. Your gaze locks onto him as he changes direction, his stride purposeful as he heads straight toward your car. A flutter of disbelief mingles with the tension in your chest —is he coming to check on you?

As he draws closer, the corners of your mouth curl into a small smile, a reaction you can’t suppress despite the circumstances. He must have noticed you still seated in the car, frozen, while the marshals were still nowhere to be seen. 

When he is close enough to the vehicle, you manage to stick a hand out of the halo, giving him a thumbs-up to signal that you’re okay. “I’m so sorry, guys. I tried, I promise I really tried to...” your voice trembled with raw emotion as you are back to speaking into the radio, each word laced with a mix of sadness and desperation. 

You take a moment to collect yourself, eyes closed as you breathe deeply, when suddenly, you feel your hand being slapped away. Startled, your eyes snap open, looking to where your hand was a moment ago as your crawl it close to your chest.  

You see Max looming over your seat, a hand gripping the bar of your halo while the other waves angrily through the air. You watch him, open mouthed, his angry yells muffled by both your helmet and his, making his words unrecognizable. But it is as if you knew exactly what he was saying. 

Max’s anger and the frustration of the moment collide within you, a storm of emotions that bursts out uncontrollably.

"What the fuck? It was your fault, you fucking asshole,” you yell at him with all the force you are lacking “And now you dare to come here to intimidate —!” 

The fury in your voice, the sheer anguish of what you had lost, reliving it sends a shiver down your spine. If you lift your eyes to the screen behind the journalist, you can also watch the exact moment the communications with the team were cut. That’s it, you spring from the seat, completely enraged by Max's audacity to come reprimand anything after the manoeuvre he had pulled on you, and the radio’s cable goes flying in the air by your side.  

A perfect shot. 

And finally, some privacy for one of the worst moments of your life. They had enough with the video being played on every single screen of the paddock. If only you had managed to hit that damn button again and shut off the microphone. 

You let out a sigh, gripping the steel barricade between the interviewer and you, trying to release some of the emotions still coursing through you. “It’s no one’s fault really, these things happen... I was just overwhelmed by the situation and said the intimidation thing, just completely drunk off adrenaline. Like Max probably” 

The statement might not align with your true feelings., but when hundreds of interviewers are knocking over each other to get your statement and the images are being endlessly replayed, it is what you have to say.  

This is how you justify your reaction, not only on the day of the accident in the media pen, with trembling hands and a still-thrashing heart, but also throughout the following week in Belgium. The same questions are repeated time and time again, your words are played in every medium of communication interested in Formula One and beyond, yet your response remains the same. 

A car crash like that would drive anyone to their wits’ end. 

It got easier to say after every new interview, your body finally pushing out of that shock state after the crash, the fear of jumping into the car gone after the first practice at the Spa-Francorchamps Circuit. Although you could not say the same about your state of mind, not with the constant taunting. 

Max had only given a few interviews the day of, looking the least bit apologetic but acknowledging his part in the incident and lamenting that both your races had come to a sudden end. When asked specifically about his outburst, he gave curt, regretful answers—no apology in sight, of course. Yet, later on, and probably advised by his media team, he aligned himself with your ‘drunk on adrenaline’ statement. It was a convenient alignment, indeed. 

Nonetheless, the effect of his media team’s nagging did not last long. 

“Max, the stewards have just issued the resolution for impeding Perez in Q2. The Haas will receive a three-place grid penalty. Any thoughts?” someone asks as Max is making his way out of the paddock, backpack slung over his shoulder. 

“To thirteenth?” Max wonders, sipping from his bottle with a curious look, slowing his pace so the interviewer and camera can catch up. 

“No, she’s dropped to fourteenth” the interviewer corrects, glancing at the press release on his phone and pointing the microphone back at the Dutch driver. 

Max tilts his head to the side, his lips pursed “That’s... okay, seems alright”. It’s almost inaudible, his head turning back to open the car’s door, as though it’s a simple reflection.  

You know full well it isn’t. This is not his first time being caught in a drama, and it’s clearly not his first fight. 

“That’ll make for a calm race, isn’t that right?” the journalist pokes, a smirk evident in his voice, and Max’s response is a laugh. 

He laughs. 

And, that’s it, what might seem like just another trivial reaction, in the wake of last week’s drama, turns the media storm. 

You can’t keep track of the times you are tagged in the video, the headlines it makes or the messages you privately receive about it. It’s everywhere, inescapable. All you can do is bite your lip and grimace every time the topic arises in the media pen. 

If you were being completely honest, the media frenzy had not come as much of a shock. Max Verstappen's reputation for his bluntness precedes him, and you know it firsthand since it has been directed at you quite a few times. Your history with the Dutch driver has always been a complex mix of distant acquaintances and unspoken rivalries. The latter includes his offhand remarks when you first joined the sport or the critics to your start in Bahrain, which had not been exactly pleasant but also not unexpected. 

Those digs had been easy enough to ignore; you did not care what he had to say, so the controversy died a few days later when you didn’t throw a jab back. It’s just your luck that, out of all the drivers, you had impeded his teammate's fast lap. 

Looks like it wasn’t enough having such a hard penalty thrown at you. A small error by your race engineer cost you the opportunity to climb up the grid and put you in Verstappen’s crosshairs. 

It’s all you can think about as you ride the truck during the driver’s parade, the crowd’s cheers and waves a distant blur. Their enthusiasm should have lifted your spirits, should have reminded you of the dream you were living. But instead, you find yourself retreating inward, pulling away from the others and slipping into the far corner of the truck, leaning heavily against the railing.  

A small bubble of isolation in the midst of a roaring celebration. 

A huge banner in the crowd catches your eye —a splash of color with your name and number framed with lots of glitter and hearts. You can't help but smile at the gesture, a genuine one that breaks through the storm inside you. The woman holding the sign notices your gaze and waves it enthusiastically. Her mouth moves, likely shouting words of encouragement, but the roar of the crowd drowns out her voice. 

You wave some more, grin stretching wider as you catch her excited reaction. In your moment of distraction, your shirt shifts, revealing a large bruise that snakes across your side —a nasty reminder of the crash back in Hungary. It has now become a deep mix of purple and yellow, sprawling across your ribs in a way that’s hard to ignore. 

And it doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Hey, what happened there?” Daniel’s voice cuts through, his concern evident as he leans in the railing, eyes wide with concern. 

You glance down, momentarily startled by the sight of the dark, ugly bruise. “Just from the crash last week,” you mutter, instinctively pulling the hem of your top down to hide it, but not before Daniel's concerned gaze catches it fully “It’s taking ages to heal”. 

His eyebrows furrow in alarm. “That’s not just a bruise! I didn’t know it had been that bad” His hand hovers near your side, filled with an instinct to help “‘You sure you should be racing?” 

Before you can respond, the exchange draws the attention of a couple drivers nearby. Alex and Lando wander over, their curiosity piqued by Daniel's reaction. 

Lando’s eyes narrow as he takes in the bruise. "Shit, that looks bad" his blunt remark gaining him a nudge from Alex. 

You let out a small, tired laugh “Thank you? I guess” 

Alex steps closer, peering over Lando’s shoulder with a look of genuine worry. "Did you talk to the doctors?" 

Daniel, glancing at where the bruise hides with a sympathetic frown, quietly adds “And the mechanics too...” 

“Yeah, I’m cleared, looks worse than it is. And trust me, I’m not missing this race” you state, the discomfort in your ribs and the sudden attention making you shift uncomfortably. “Got some extra padding in the seat now, though.” 

The group doesn’t push any further, only giving you tight-lipped smiles and exchanging a few glances between them, though you can tell they’re not entirely convinced. You’re relieved when the truck starts moving toward the pitlane, signalling the end of the driver’s parade and allowing you to escape the spotlight, if only for a moment. 

As you step down from the truck and head towards the garage, Verstappen suddenly falls into step beside you. You glance at him, eyebrows knitting together in confusion and irritation. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes flickering down to your side “You alright?” 

The question feels loaded, more than just concern for your physical well-being. It’s the first real acknowledgment of what happened between you two, and the tension crackles between you like static. 

You tense, your anger simmering beneath the surface. "I’m completely fine" you say, a little sharper than intended, still raw from the incident and everything that has transpired since.  

"Look, I’m sorry you got hurt.” the Red Bull driver sighs, hand coming up to scratch his cheek. “But, you know, there was nothing I could do. You left me no space and— " 

That makes you stop in your tracks, fists clenching at your sides as you spin to face him. A forced smile is plastered across your face, though your eyes are burning with frustration. You are fully aware of where you are, can feel the eyes trained on you, the people discreetly gathering by your sides but not daring to approach. You are right at the entrance of the pit lane, under the gaze of spectators in the grandstands and the guests hanging balconies over the garages. 

“Oh, so this is what it’s about?” you snap, voice laced with venomous sweetness. “You want me to say you did great, that ‘oh poor thing, I wasn’t letting you race’?” 

Verstappen’s expression hardens, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment, clearly not expecting the bite in your tone. "No, that’s not—" 

“Watch the fucking video, Max,” you interrupt his explanation, your smile still in place but your words sharp. “I was right there. You turned in like I wasn’t even racing you!” 

Max’s face reddens, his anger palpable as he tries to defend himself. “I’m not going to let you just blame me for everything,” he retorts, voice deep “You knew you couldn’t hold up and yet, you kept blocking me. You know better than that!” 

“I know better?!” you repeat incredulously “It’s you who drives like a maniac, pushing every fucking limit and expecting everyone to get out of your way!” 

“That’s not fair, and you know it." the Dutch’s eyes narrow, clearly stung by your accusation." I came to apologize, but it looks like you’re too busy playing the victim to actually have a normal conversation.” 

“Go fuck yourself, Max,” you say, the smile on your face a strained mask of anger for the cameras capturing every second of this standoff “I shouldn’t have saved your sorry ass. You came to intimidate me then, and now you’re just trying to do it again.” 

Everyone is waiting for a reaction, something they can replay and dissect for days on end. That is what they want, what Max wants, but you are decided not to give it to them. Not here, not ever. 

The word ‘intimidate’ hits Max like a punch. His eyes flashing with a mix of anger and something else—maybe hurt, maybe disbelief— but before he can respond, someone else interrupts the scene. 

Daniel saunters over with his signature grin, throwing an arm around Max’s shoulders and pulling him in like they’re just two friends hanging out before a race. The casualness of the move feels jarring against the heated tension between, but Daniel’s intentions are clear. 

“Alright, alright, let’s cool down, kids,” Daniel says, his tone playful but cutting the tension immediately. “We’ve got a race ahead, yeah?” 

There’s an undertone of urgency in Daniel’s eyes as they flick between you, practically begging you both to play along. Verstappen stiffens under Daniel’s arm, the anger still radiating off him in waves, but he doesn’t push him off. Instead, he also forces a tight-lipped smile, letting the older driver guide him towards the garage. 

Daniel looks back at you from a few meters away, his eyes full of unspoken questions. You meet his gaze and offer a slight nod, hoping he’ll understand you’ll be alright. You hope so. 

That day, Verstappen is crowned the winner of the Belgium Grand Prix, lifting his trophy amidst a blur of celebratory cheers and flashing cameras. The dominance of his Red Bull had been undeniable, easily overtaking Lewis Hamilton in just a few laps and maintaining a consistent five-second lead. It was a victory that felt almost inevitable. The superiority of the machine, and his skill, had made this race his from the start. 

“Well, sometimes you have to be smart and know when to pick up a fight” Verstappen states with a shrug during the post-race interviews, still sticky with champagne, adjusting his cap with nonchalance. His words were casual, but the undertone of superiority was clear. “Simple as that” 

Then came the voice, sharp and loud enough to turn heads in the press room: "Some people love wasting everyone’s time." 

The crowd of reporters fell into a hush. Everyone knew what that comment referred to—your battle with Max earlier in the race. Though it only took Max half a lap to pass you, the ferocity with which you defended your position had been the talk of the week. Some praised it as spirited, but most agreed it was just a roadblock for the Dutchman. 

Max could have ignored it. He could have chosen silence. But instead, he picked up the microphone again, leaned back in the chair, and added, “Yeah, clearly,” with the same detached tone, fueling the already smoldering flames of controversy. 

You weren't there to hear the smug remark firsthand, but it found you soon enough, as these things do. He doesn’t have to worry about that. 

“Oh, he said that? Really?” you muttered bitterly, your eyebrows knitting together in a mixture of frustration and disbelief. You couldn’t help the anger bubbling up. Not only had he made a snide comment, but he’d doubled down on it when a journalist baited him. He had to be joking. “Well, you know what? He should know how to fight without ending in the curb. He’s not a rookie anymore” 

And with that, the story exploded.  

The media ran with it, fuelling the narrative of a growing rivalry between you and Verstappen. Headlines, articles, social media—all of it revolved around your comment and Max’s subtle digs. The situation escalated when Red Bull’s team principal chimed in, defending Max and throwing more shade your way. His comment about "drivers needing to be aware of their surroundings" felt like another knife in the back. You couldn’t watch more than a few seconds before turning off the interview, letting the media team handle the backlash in your stead. 

At the peak of it all, as if on cue, a video is posted online, flooding every social media platform within hours. It was footage from a Grill the Grid challenge, recorded months ago, back when you were still settling into your Haas gear. You had guessed Max’s childhood photo in an instant, smiling softly as you held the picture up to the camera. 

“Max! That’s easy,” you had said, the smile lingering. “He’s always had such pretty eyes... I’ll give him that.” 

You never expected that line to make the final cut. They usually cut those videos down, especially with the newer drivers. But they ran with it —probably hoping for this exact reaction from their followers. 

Alongside it, Verstappen’s reaction to your photo also rises to the top of the searched videos. It is similar to yours, instantly guessing your name despite your hair being hidden underneath a woollen beanie, which would be the instant give away when compared to the rest of the men. Of course he recognized you, he’d been there when the photo was taken, back in the early karting days, probably messing around with his sister, Victoria, while waiting for his turn to race. 

It was one of the first few races you participated in, and although it was also one of the last ones Victoria raced in, you clicked pretty well. You might think it was a given for the only two girls in the sea of boys, but it was nice nonetheless. You often wished she had continued racing alongside you, sharing this difficult journey. Perhaps it would have been Victoria's printed photo in the stand. 

But Verstappen didn’t mention any of that. He just spends a moment longer than necessary looking at your picture, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

At the Dutch Grand Prix, the weight of the media storm becomes almost palpable. Every question during the weekend seemed to circle back to him. No matter how much you tried to redirect attention, the media kept poking, fishing for another soundbite. 

You manage to end the weekend unscathed. Verstappen had probably been advised, once again, to ignore the topic and avoid the snide comments. You are glad he is listening to them this time —not like the people in his team, but that’s another a whole different story. He has not even reacted to your remark last week, publicly that is, and kept his focus on the race all throughout the weekend. 

Well, it is easier to forget about the press when winning left and right. Even more so when he is bringing home such an important win, his home race’s trophy.  

Meanwhile, you trudged back to the Haas garage, yet another disappointing race under your belt. Your name getting comfortable hanging near the back of the grid, the sting of failure settling in. 

Emma, your PR minder, intercepted you on the way to the media pen. Her expression was strained as she handed you a tablet. “There’s a new video making the rounds” her voice cautious as she gave you the news. 

Your stomach clenches as the clip starts rolling. The shaky video captures some unseen footage from the day of the crash, probably filmed from the edge of the track. It shows you, huddled against a barrier, knees pulled tightly to your chest. Your helmet is off, and you're crying uncontrollably, shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. Marshals gather around, gently trying to lift you, but your body hangs limp, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, utterly broken. 

After several long seconds, the video cuts to your arrival at the garage, your face a mask of composure. The tears are gone, then. No trembling, no visible sign of the emotional breakout you just had. You simply walk in towards the screens of the pitwall, face blank. As if nothing had happened. 

Emma glances at you, trying to gauge your reaction.  

“So, what do we do?” your voice is slow, forced, as you blink away the tears. 

Emma’s voice drifts in and out of your mind as she tries to explain the plan for handling the press, but you can barely focus. All you want is to be done with this day—this race, this stress, this constant barrage of questions. Your mind is still reeling from the latest disastrous race, and now the video. 

“Just stick to the script, try to pivot the attention” she concludes, voice carefully neutral as she keeps a steady pace, moving you through the paddock with a hand in your back. 

“I just want to be done with this...” you whispered, your voice cracking. Your chest tightens as the video plays again in your mind, the rawness of it suffocating you. 

Emma gives you a sympathetic look, though there’s a hint of firmness in her tone. “I know. Let’s answer a couple question and we’ll be gone in no time, I promise” 

You nod absently, barely taking in her advice as you try to steady your breathing. 

The background hum of the paddock turns into a dull roar, your focus too scattered to notice it at first. It’s only when the noise grows louder—cheers and loud laughter—that you snap out of your thoughts, realizing the celebration has crept right up to you. 

You look up just in time to see a sea of dark blue pouring through the paddock. The Red Bull team, still riding the high of his victory, is coming down the main street. One of them tosses the trophy in the air with a triumphant whoop, cameras clicking wildly around them. You instinctively step aside, shrinking into yourself, hoping to stay out of sight. 

But then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, Verstappen’s locks onto yours. He takes a deep breath before he breaks away from the group, approaching you cautiously. 

“Hey,” he says, his voice tentative, unusually soft. “Can we talk for a second?” 

His approach catches you completely off guard. The last thing you need right now is this conversation —especially with him. The weight of the bad race, the stress, everything that’s gone wrong today. It’s too much. “Not now, Max,” you say, sharper than intended, trying to push past him. 

Max’s expression tightens, but he steps forward, his hand catching your arm gently but firmly, halting your escape. “Wait—just, hold on. I know things have been rough, but I wanted to check on—” 

You whip around, eyes immediately flicking from his hand on your arm to his face, complete and utter shock flashing through you before anger takes over. You see red, your pulse pounding in your ears, drowning out any attempt to understand what he’s trying to say. 

“What the hell, Max?” your voice is low but laced with fury, each word seething. “Do you really think now is the time? That this is what I need right now?” 

His grip loosens, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected your reaction, but you’re not even close to being done. 

“You’re keeping me out here again for what? So I can make a scene?” you gesture toward the photographers, already poised with their cameras trained on the two of you, eagerly awaiting the drama. Your words spill out, venomous but restrained. “To give them exactly what they’re hoping for—more shots of me losing it? Is that what you want, Max?”  

The look on his face is as if you’ve physically struck him. His mouth opens slightly, something akin to a “Sorry” slipping out of his lips. But the damage is already done.  

With a harsh breath, you yank your arm away and turn on your heel. You storm off, adrenaline surging through you, blurring the cameras, the people, the stares. Everything fades into a dull hum, swallowed by the chaos you’re desperately trying to escape. 

The media frenzy surrounding the crash had mostly died down by the time the United States Grand Prix rolled around. The headlines shifted, and the cameras no longer swarmed your every move. Maybe the world found a woman broken down and crying at the side of a track a less than interesting topic to critique. Ironically, the overexposure had granted you some much-needed breathing room. 

And in that quiet, you focused on what really mattered: the racing. 

It feels contradictory to reach the first milestone of your Formula One career on a circuit you have always despised. The Circuit of The Americas was a harsh, undulating track that challenged even the most seasoned drivers. Its aggressive turns and long straights had never been kind to you, a place where any minor mistake could leave you battling the car just to stay on track, let alone compete. The Texas heat didn’t help either, soaking into the tarmac and the air, making everything feel heavier, harder.  

Yet, despite your earlier misgivings, the track had offered you a chance to prove yourself. And this time, you seized it. 

Your car, against all odds, held up perfectly. The upgrades to the car, though minor, made it feel more responsive and alive beneath your hands. And the strategy calls had been spot-on. This time, everything clicked.  

When you crossed the finish line and scored your first points in Formula One, the emotion hit you like a wave. It was a small but monumental victory, a validation of your skill and perseverance in a place which often seemed like an insurmountable obstacle. 

The media circus, which had been a constant presence throughout the season, faded in the background. As if it had never been there. 

As you coasted back to the garage, your face locked in a smile that refused to fade, the team met you halfway, erupting into celebration. Cheers filled the air as they lifted you, waving the position board with "P10" scrawled beside your name as though you had taken a podium finish. Their joy wasn’t just about the result; it was about everything that led to that moment—your hard work, their dedication, and the culmination of a long, arduous season. 

The party continued in the garage, where the team gathered for photos and the popping of a small bottle of champagne that you were drenched in. The atmosphere was electric, filled with laughter, cheers, and a sense of collective pride. Hugs, handshakes, and nods of respect flowed not just from your own team but from drivers wandering in from their garages, their congratulations laced with a new-found respect. For you, it all was confirmation that you were here to stay. 

Amid the flurry of congratulations, you noticed Max approaching. His presence, initially unexpected, was met with mixed emotions. You had become accustomed to the tension between you, a simmering rivalry that played out both on and off the track. But today, was different. 

Max gave you a small, hesitant smile as he walked towards you. The usual competitive edge in his eyes softened. “Congratulations,” he said quietly, extending a hand. His tone sincere as a small chuckle slips off his lips “You really earned it.” 

In that moment, the weight of the day’s emotions, combined with the unexpected kindness from the rival, overwhelmed you. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as the events of the day hit you all at once. Without thinking, you step forward and wrap your arms around Max in a spontaneous hug. A gesture of relief and gratitude, expressing emotions that words couldn’t quite capture. 

Max seems taken aback by the embrace, but he returns it with a reassuring pat on your back. There’s a brief, shared moment—one filled with the weight of everything you’ve both endured this season. The conflicts, the tension... It all melts away in the hug, replaced by a silent acknowledgment of the challenges faced. It’s as if you both silently agree: whatever the future holds, you will handle it differently. You’ll treat each other better. 

With a final nod, Max turns and walks away, blending into the sea of people celebrating around you, leaving you to bask in the moment with your team. You wipe at your tears, laughter bubbling up as your team drags you back into the celebration. 

The Brazilian Grand Prix was always a spectacle of unpredictability, and this year was no different. The warm atmosphere at Interlagos crackled with anticipation and nerves, heightened by your surprising performance in qualifying. The car felt responsive, dialled in for the twists and turns of the circuit. 

This was the highest position you had achieved all season, and the weight of expectation mingled with excitement as you lined up on the grid. The lights overhead blinked to life, the engines roaring in unison and the adrenaline starting pumping though your body. 

Launching off the line, you navigated the opening corners with precision, maintaining position amidst the frenetic battles of the midfield. You kept focus, managing your tires well, everything clicking into place just enough to keep you in a high enough position. Things were finally working in your favour. 

The decision to pit early came as a calculated risk, a move to capitalize on the clear track and exploit the potential of fresh rubber. The pit crew executed flawlessly, the stop seamless in its precision. Emerging back onto the track, the new tires gripped the asphalt with renewed vigor, propelling you forward into the heart of the race. 

As expected, the field began to thin out with the inevitable cycle of pit stops not much later. With each passing lap, your focus sharpened, pushing harder to maximize the advantage. You found yourself gaining ground on the cars ahead, the gaps closing with every lap. 

A Red Bull appeared ahead, its familiar livery standing out against the asphalt. A crackle of static brought your race engineer's voice to life over the radio: "Verstappen ahead". His firm tone coupled with a tint of urgency, almost a warning. 

The Dutchman was struggling, clearly executing a different strategy while others succumbed to a change of tires. His car was losing grip with every corner, the acrid scent of burnt rubber lingering in the air as your opportunities of overtaking loomed closer and closer. 

Adrenaline surged through you as you moved forward. Max wasn’t your main rival today—he’d undoubtedly regain his pace after a pit stop, surging with a speed you couldn’t even hope to match. But you needed the few seconds you could grab on the nearly empty track. 

All you needed was patience, a clean pass, and you’d be on your way. But that’s the thing about this sport —it’s never that simple. 

You line up your move. DRS wide open, your car gaining on his down the straight. It was a textbook overtaking maneuver: inside line into the braking zone, clean, fast, and decisive. But Max, being Max, wasn’t going to let anyone by without a fight. He moved just enough to defend, squeezing you towards the inside of the track. Not illegal, but aggressive, forcing you to rethink your approach.  

You held your ground, refusing to back off, the story repeating itself –if only with a bit more space to move. 

Then comes the corner. It’s tight, both of you pushing each other to the absolute limit. For a split second, you are wheel to wheel. And just when you think you’ve made it past, it happens. A small touch, barely enough to register, but at these speeds, it was all it took. Your rear end twitches, your car snaps sideways, and before you can react, you’re spinning off the track. 

“No, no, no!” you shouted into the radio as the car careened off track and into the gravel, the engine dying and warnings flashing on the steering wheel. Race over.  

Yet again, your gaze locks on the Red Bull in the distance, but this time as it rolls out of your field of view. 

“Are you okay?” came the concerned voice from the pit wall. 

“Yeah,” you muttered, already climbing unfastening the harness, trying your best to push down the surge of frustration. Another DNF. Another race ruined. 

The walk back to the garage is a haze of exhaustion and anger. It all hit you at once. It wasn’t just the race —it was everything. The months of pressure, the crash, the constant questions, and now, this. By the time you reached your driver’s room, you could only collapse into the sofa, still in your race suit, helmet discarded. You stared blankly at the wall, reliving every second of the race over and over. Trapped in it. 

A knock on the door breaks your thoughts. You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there. 

“Hey…” 

The voice is soft, almost hesitant, but unmistakable.  

You glance up through blurry vision, blinking in surprise when you confirm your suspicions. Max is standing there, awkwardly leaning in the doorway. He isn’t in his race suit anymore, dressed down in a hoodie and jeans, looking more like some random guy than the potential next world champion. Clearly, he had come after things had settled, hoping not to attract attention. 

The race must have ended already, the post-race conference too. You are glad to have finished your interviews before heading back to the garage. 

You sigh, too tired to even muster anger. “Max, it’s okay,” you say, the exhaustion seeping into your voice. “I don’t want to talk about it. You can go.” 

Max stands there for a second, as if weighing his options. You half-expect him to launch into some explanation, to try and defend what happened on track, but he doesn’t. He’s learned as much. Instead, he steps forward, quietly placing something on the table beside you —a small bag of candy. 

For a moment, you are confused, your mind too fogged to register the gesture. But suddenly, it clicks. Your mind flashes back to years ago, when you were both still clawing your way up the ranks. Max, already on his meteoric rise, and you, still fighting your way up. 

Victoria’s smile shines brightly in your memory. Her full cheeks and radiant aura would light up your day as she brought little treats to ease the tension when things went awry. It was normal, you would go toe to toe against the boys, some twice your size, both on and off the track without a care in the world.  

The competition was fierce, but so were you. 

You and Victoria would often find solace away from the prying eyes and relentless pressure, chatting about everything and nothing as you stuffed your mouth with gummies. Back then, those sweet candies were more than just a sugary distraction, they were a reminder of the warmth and encouragement that surrounded you amid the intense battle for the victory 

In those early days, Max had been more of a shadow on the periphery of your racing life. Your interactions with him were fleeting—brief greetings exchanged in the pit lane or terse words during on-track incidents. He was a quiet kid, focused on his future and nothing else. 

But as you looked at the small bag of candy on the table, a new question surfaced in your mind. Had Max noticed those sweet moments with his sister? Seen your younger self as the laughter mingled with tears over those simple, yet comforting, treats? 

As the nostalgia washed over you, a sense of empathy began to emerge. Max’s gesture, though simple, carried a depth of understanding that you hadn’t anticipated. Now, here he is, all those years later, standing in your driver’s room after a crash and offering peace though candy. 

You take a deep breath, the tension of the harsh season and the DNF felt heavy, but his silent apology softened the edges of your frustration. If only a little. 

Without uttering a word, Max gave a faint smile and quietly turned to leave.  

And for now, that is all you need. 

Months later, everything feels different, yet somehow familiar. The paddock is alive, roaring with the sounds of celebration, laughter, and the rush of an unforgettable season. The final race has come to an end and the highs and lows of the season hang in the air like the last whispers of a storm 

You find yourself moving through the chaos—staff, photographers, and fans all clamoring for a piece of the moment. Your heart swelled with pride as you saw the joy on his face, the weight of months of pressure and competition lifting as he basks in the victory. The World Champion. 

“Congrats, Lewis!” you shout, your voice barely cutting through the cacophony of cheers and fireworks exploding in the distance. He grins, pulling you into a hug. The cameras are snapping away but, for once, you don’t care. 

You step back, giving him a playful shove towards his team, watching as he disappears into the throng of engineers and mechanics. The confetti starts to fall, the air shimmering with silver and gold as fireworks burst above. Lewis collapses into his team, arms raised in victory, and it’s a scene you know will be replayed everywhere for years to come. 

The ending ceremony and final interviews come and go in a blur—everyone’s thoughts about the season, the excitement, and exhaustion all blending into one. The adrenaline is fading, leaving a strange, peaceful silence in its wake. 

Slipping away from the noise, you head back to your driver’s room. The door closes behind you, and for the first time in hours, the world is still. You peel off your race suit, changing into something more comfortable, savoring the moment of peace. Outside, the paddock slowly quiets as the celebration winds down, leaving behind only the hum of the circuit at rest. 

You decide to step out onto the pit lane one last time, onto the long shadows casted by the lights and the soft breeze that stirs the warms air of Abu Dhabi. Only a couple marshals and mechanics are still working and talking outside. The night is settling in, and you take a deep breath, taking it all in. 

That’s when you see Max. 

He’s standing near the edge of the pit lane, still in his race suit, though the top half hangs loose around his waist, leaving only the fireproofs underneath. His face is cast in a soft light, the tension of the race gone, but a lingering weight still present. He doesn’t notice you at first, his gaze somewhere far away, lost in thought. 

You hesitate, unsure if you should approach. The rivalry, the tension between you two—it’s all been part of the narrative this season. But something in the way he stands there alone, in the quiet aftermath of the race, pulls you forward. 

“Hey,” you say softly, breaking the silence. 

Max glances up, surprised to see you. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, maybe relief? He gives a small nod. “Hey.” 

You shift awkwardly, leaning against the wall next to him. The weight of the season and everything that came with it lingers in the air. "I, uh… just wanted to say congrats," you finally manage, your voice tentative. 

Max raises an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “For what?” 

“You know," you begin, the word hanging off the tip of your tongue “How was it called?”  

“The first loser?”  

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Oh, shut up! I meant the runner-up,” you correct, giving him a light slap on the shoulder. 

“I guess.” He shrugs, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. But there’s no sharpness in his voice this time, just a weariness. He looks out at the grandstands, his voice quieter now, the weight of the season clearly pressing on him. “Feels like the first loser to me.” 

“How could that be the first loser? I’m the first loser,” you quip, half-joking although the events of the season hang heavy on your mind “Got a couple of points and went home.” 

Max opens his mouth to correct you, but you quickly shoot him a look —one that says, see?— daring him to argue. He catches your meaning and closes his mouth again, letting out a soft sigh instead, though his eyes shows that he disagrees. 

A beat of silence passes before you speak again, quieter this time. “I know one day you’re going to win so much, you’ll get bored of it.” 

Max looks down, his expression hard to read. There’s no smirk, no witty comeback. Just a silence that stretches between you. He kicks at a pebble on the ground, then after a while, glances back up. 

“Know anything about next year?” he asks, his voice low. Despite all the rumours swirling around the paddock, no one really knows what's going to happen with the Haas lineup. Contracts hang in limbo, as do the futures of several drivers.  

"Yeah, Mick’s out…” you sigh, looking down at your feet “and I’m probably next." 

Max shakes his head almost immediately, a frown forming on his face “I don’t think so, you did well this year.” 

“Yeah, well… at the back of the grid,” you reply, the words slipping out with a bitter edge. 

He looks at you seriously “You have to know what car you have. You did more than enough this year, got your first points, even. Nobody expected that.” 

You huff out a small laugh, but there's no real joy in it. "I'm a headache, Max. You’ve all seen that. I have to know what team I'm in, they can’t risk it" you repeat his words back at him, eyebrows knitted in discomfort. 

Max goes quiet, his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him. The weight of your uncertainty seems to settle between you, an invisible burden neither of you can shake off easily. After a beat, the Red Bull driver stands upright, and silently invite you to walk back to the garages with a tilt of his head. 

“So, are you going to Lewis' party?” 

You hesitate, unsure. “I don’t know yet,” you admit. While part of you wants to go and live what could be your last moments in this bubble, another part just wants to finally hide from the noise that’s been suffocating you all season.  

You clearly have not gotten used to this, and probably won’t ever. 

Reaching the door to his garage, Max studies you for a moment as he leans on the wall, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, if you feel like it, you should come to the first loser’s party.” 

He shrugs, the faint glint in his eyes reflecting the lights of the pit lane. “Well, not everyone can be the winner.” His voice is gentler now, expecting your exasperated sigh, and he smirks “At least I’ve got pretty eyes.” 

You blink, caught off guard, a grin creeping into your face despite yourself.

“Again with the first loser?" you shake your head, Max simply shrugs “You sure know how to sell a party, Max.” 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at the callback to the viral video that had stirred up so much media buzz. “Oh, please,” you say, though a smile manages to break through as you give a light shove to his shoulder “You’re such an asshole.” 

Max doesn’t flinch, his smirk growing wider. His gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than necessary, and in that quiet moment, the circuit seemed to fall even more silent, as though the world around you both stilled.  

And, before you could think twice about it, you whisper the words “But yeah, you sure do”. 

Author's note: this has been in my drafts for ages, didn't even have a title, just stupid to lovers so I guess that explains a lot. This idea was also supposed to be part of If I lose my mind but I just had to many things in my head. Hope you liked it, its my first time writing for Max so that's that.

Thanks a lot for reading! And, as always, any kind of interaction is greatly apreciated.

[whitedarkmoonflower]

Forever mine

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female)

Authors note: I'm not gonna lie this didn't come easy but I'm glad I managed to write it. It's somewhat like a first step back to writing and it's S2 Sihtric again as he is my absolute comfort character. @volklana it's for you darling for inspiring me to write again.

Warnings: angst, fluff, SMUT 18+, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, Sihtric being a sweetheart as always

Summary: A young Dane awakens something long buried in you, but the truth threatens to shatter your stolen moments. Can love survive built on lies?

Word Count: 7,8 K

Pain had always been a constant in Sihtric’s life—a relentless reminder that he was still alive. He had learned to endure it, to push it aside and keep moving. But now, with every laboured step, he knew it was different. A heavy grunt escaped his lips as he stumbled, the growing heaviness in his limbs warning him that the injury was far worse than he’d initially thought.

Warm, sticky blood trickled through his fingers as he pressed his hand harder against the wound in his side, trying to staunch the flow. The gash throbbed with a fiery intensity, each pulse sending fresh waves of agony through his body.

The scouting mission had gone terribly wrong, and he had only himself to blame.

Slipping away from the camp, determined to prove he was the best scout among them, had been reckless. But he wanted – no, he needed – to prove himself to his new lord, to show his worth, to show he was more than just a follower, more than a shadow.

Yes, he had found the Danes, but they had found him too. Now, the burning pain in his side served as a cruel reminder of his foolishness. 

Each step harder than the last, the forest around him slowly turned into a blur of green and shadows as his vision dimmed. Sihtric clenched his jaw, forcing himself forward – if he could just make it back to camp, if he could just hold on a little longer. 

Was he even heading in the right direction?

Sihtric stumbled, his legs barely able to hold his weight, and this time, he couldn't catch himself. He crashed to the ground, the thick moss cushioning his fall, but the sharp, searing pain that tore through his side forced a strangled moan from his clenched teeth.

He lay there for a moment, sprawled on his back, chest heaving. Above him, the thick canopy of leaves let in slivers of golden light, the first signs of dawn breaking through.

The sun was rising, marking the beginning of a new day, a day he might not live to see the end of.

Yet, he felt no regret.

Even now, with life draining from his body, he would make the same choice again. If this was where it ended—alone in a forest, bleeding out into the moss and leaves—so be it.

He had chosen this path.

For the first time in his life, he had given his oath freely, not out of fear or obligation, but out of loyalty and honour. He wanted to serve, to be worthy of Uhtred’s trust, to prove that he deserved his place, that Uhtred had made the right decision accepting him. That was worth any pain, any price.

His vision blurred, but Sihtric kept his eyes fixed on the shifting patterns of light above, with a shuddering breath he rolled over and slowly forced himself up on his knees.

He had no intention of dying here, not yet. He still had something to prove.

There it was: the small, crooked house that resembled a giant mushroom, leaning precariously against the mighty oak tree beside it.

The villagers called it the Witch's Lair. The old house greeted you silently, as it always did, the only constant in your ever-changing life.

Perched on the outskirts of the village, right at the forest’s edge, the house was hidden from sight by a tangle of towering trees and dense bushes.

It had stood empty for years, and no one could remember who had last lived there. Its roof was thick with moss, the window shutters hung crooked, some hinges rusted and loose, and the steps leading to the entrance were so rotten they had collapsed the first time you set foot on them.

You remembered every word of the gruesome tales whispered around the village fires—the stories of the witch who had lived in the house, stealing children and casting curses on anyone who dared to approach.

They said her ghost still haunted the place, luring in unsuspecting travellers and never letting them leave. On nights of the full moon, it was said you could hear their cries, calling for help that would never come.

No one dared to approach the cursed house, let alone step inside. Perhaps that was the very reason you had chosen it as your safe haven, your refuge.

This was the one place no one would ever dare to look for you. Of that, you were sure. Yet, as you approached, the house looked so peaceful, so calm, almost as if it were inviting you in.

You pressed your palm against the weathered wood of the outer wall, feeling its roughness under your skin, and listened to the quiet.

The sun hung high overhead, but its light barely penetrated the thick canopy of trees that loomed over the house like ancient guardians. Their tangled branches stretched out, like strong veiny arms, casting long shadows and shielding the house from the outside world.

A strange sense of peace settled over you as you pushed open the door. It creaked loudly in protest, a long, drawn-out whine that echoed in the stillness but yielded to your touch.

For a fleeting moment, you wished the stories were true—that you could disappear behind these doors and never have to face the world again.

Inside, you moved with practised ease, avoiding the sagging floorboards that threatened to collapse underfoot. You crossed the dimly lit room, heading for the large, dusty cupboard by the window.

It held your most cherished possession: an old, leather-bound Bible, the only thing you had managed to save from the fire that had consumed your home, your past, your life.

The weight of the book in your hands was familiar, a comfort that pulled you back to memories of a time before everything had changed. You held it close, the leather cool against your skin, savouring the past swirl around you – a fleeting, almost forgotten feeling of a home, of a place to belong to. 

But today, something felt different.

A faint sound reached your ears—a muffled moan, barely audible, coming from the other room.

You froze, your heart pounding, a chill running down your spine. Your legs felt weak, as if rooted to the spot, even though every instinct screamed at you to run.

“Who’s there?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, trembling in the silence, yet the sound hung in the air, sharp and intrusive, like a blade slicing through the stillness, violating the house's sacred peace.

There was no answer.

Just silence, thick and suffocating.

A shaft of light broke through the dust-laden air as you placed the Bible on the table by the window. The book landed with a dull thud, and at that precise moment, you heard it again—a moan, clearer this time, unmistakable.

Panic thundered in your mind, urging you to run, to flee before it was too late. But instead, to your own surprise, you turned and headed directly toward the other room, the source of the sound.

The deafening cry you let out as the mountain of blankets on the bed suddenly came to life, sprang to its feet, and tried to grasp your arm, would have made anyone in the village run for their lives. But here, in the eerie silence of the old house, it only seemed to echo back at you, swallowed by the dark, empty rooms as you fought to pull away.

You drove your fist into the stranger’s stomach with all the strength your fragile frame could muster.

He doubled over, and you yanked your arm free, sprinting towards the door.

Behind you, there was a loud thud as his body hit the floor, followed by an agonised moan.

“Please, help me,” the stranger’s voice, unusually soft and melodic, was laced with desperation, making you stop and turn back.

The crouched figure on the floor was a young warrior, clearly a Dane judging by his distinctive haircut and clothing.

As your eyes widened with growing fear, you took in the scene: his hands pressed tightly against his side, his face contorted with pain. He made no effort to stand.

“Please…” His whisper trailed off into a groan.

Driven by an inexplicable urge, you took a cautious step toward him.

“I’m no threat. I will not harm you. Please, help me!” Each word came out with difficulty, mingled with ragged breaths. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his body trembled.

You crouched down, raising your hand slowly.

The young Dane flinched, instinctively trying to pull away, but the movement only made him wince in pain. His eyes—one a striking blue, the other a deep brown—watched your hand with a mix of fear and uncertainty as you gently placed your palm on his forehead.

It was burning hot.

“We need to get you back into bed,” you said with unexpected certainty, surprising even yourself.

There was no rational reason to help someone who might, at the next opportunity, return to burn down your village. Your mind screamed to run and alert the others, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

“Hold on to me,” you murmured, slipping the stranger's arm around your shoulders as you tried to help him to his feet.

Each step drew a muffled whine from the young Dane. He struggled to keep up, dragging his feet with great effort, his breaths growing more laboured with each movement.

He collapsed onto the bedside and sank back into the blankets, exhausted.

Your eyes wandered over his lean, almost gaunt frame, the muscular arms exposed by his sleeveless leather armour, and his strikingly handsome, youthful face.

What was he doing here, in your secret hideout?

A pained groan pulled you out of your thoughts, your eyes drawn to the blood staining the blankets.

“Wait here, I’ll be right back,” you said, already moving toward the door.

You chuckled at your own foolishness.

“As if he has a choice in his condition,” you muttered to yourself.

The hearth hadn’t been used in ages, and it was a miracle no birds had nested in the chimney. After a few failed attempts, you finally managed to light a fire, and soon the water in the kettle began to bubble.

Finding clean rags proved to be more of a challenge. You’d decided against returning to the village to avoid awkward questions and there was in fact no time for that, which left you with only one option—to sacrifice your underskirt.

You returned to the room, your makeshift rags in hand. The young Dane was still lying on the bed, his breathing ragged and uneven. His eyes met yours, filled with pain but also a hint of trust, as if he had decided to place his fate in your hands.

“We need to get you out of this armour,” you said softly, kneeling beside him.

His face tightened in a grimace, but he nodded, his jaw set in determination.

Gingerly, you began to unbuckle the leather straps of his armour, your fingers moving quickly yet carefully with a practised ease. Each movement was met with a wince or a sharp intake of breath from him, but he made no sound.

You bit your lip as you peeled back his tunic, revealing the wound. A deep gash ran along his side, the skin jagged and torn. Blood oozed slowly from it, staining his skin and pooling onto the bed.

“This is going to hurt,” you warned, your voice trembling slightly.

He merely nodded, his eyes meeting yours with a steady gaze.

You cleaned the wound as best as you could, using the rags and hot water from the kettle. His muscles tensed beneath your touch, and his breathing grew more laboured, but he didn’t flinch. He endured it silently, and you could only marvel at the self-restraint the young Dane showed, holding himself with a stoic resolve and refusing to cry out.

Next came the stitching.

You had never imagined that your sewing kit, meant for mending your best dress—now faded and threadbare—would be used for something like this. But here you were.

You threaded the needle with steady hands, even as your heart pounded in your chest. You had never done this before, but now was not the right time for uncertainty. 

The first stitch drew a low hiss from his lips, his eyes squeezing shut. You kept going, each pull of the thread through his skin accompanied by a muffled groan or a shuddering breath. He clenched his fists, gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white, but he didn’t move, didn’t protest.

Minutes passed, feeling like hours, until finally, the wound was closed.

You wiped away the last traces of blood, bandaging his side as carefully as you could. He was sweating, his face pale, his eyes glazed with pain, but still, he managed to look at you.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper.

As the words left his lips, his eyes rolled back, fluttering closed, and he collapsed against the pillows, losing consciousness.

You sat back, releasing a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, and your hands shook slightly, adrenaline still coursing through you. 

What on earth were you doing?

The thought pierced through your mind, sharp and unrelenting. This was madness—helping a wounded Dane, an enemy.

And yet, as you watched his chest rise and fall, the tension slowly leaving his chiselled, muscular frame, you couldn’t deny the strange sense of relief that washed over you. Against all reason, you felt a flicker of accomplishment, knowing you had saved his life, at least for now. 

None of it made any sense.

The moment he opened his eyes, Sihtric’s first instinct was to run, but his body refused to cooperate. His limbs felt as if they were filled with lead, collapsing under him after just a few steps.

Memories returned slowly, emerging from the fog clouding his mind like fragmented images.

He had been injured, certain he was going to die.

The solitary house on the edge of the forest had seemed like a possible refuge, even though it looked empty and abandoned. As his strength faded and the cold seeped under his skin, the bed with its old, tattered blankets had seemed so inviting.

He heard footsteps approaching and turned his head towards the sound. His eyes found you—the face he recognized now.

The beautiful, slightly pale face, the gentle voice, the big, fearful eyes brimming with determination and warmth. He remembered the way your fingers had trembled as you held the needle. He remembered everything, yet none of it made sense.

Why had you saved him? A Dane, a stranger, an enemy. And yet here you were, holding a steaming bowl in your hands, concern evident in your eyes.

“Take it easy,” you said with a soft smile, one that made Sihtric feel like he was losing himself in its warmth. “You need to eat to regain your strength. Let me help you.”

As much as Sihtric hated to admit it, he was in no condition to even hold the bowl himself. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as he accepted your help, allowing you to feed him. 

The real trial, however, came when you returned with clean wraps, clearly determined to change his bandages.

Sihtric's eyes widened as you approached, a wave of discomfort washing over him.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said quickly, his voice betraying a hint of panic.

He tried to sit up straighter, but his body protested with a sharp jolt of pain, forcing him to lie back down.

“What’s your name?” you asked, your hand gently resting on his forehead to check for fever.

“I’m called Sihtric, lady,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

He felt himself melt into the unexpectedly comforting tenderness of your touch. It had been so long—he couldn’t even remember the last time someone had touched him with such gentleness and care. 

“Nice to meet you, Sihtric,” you replied, as simple as that.

No questions, no suspicious inquiries, just another soft smile and eyes filled with compassion, tinged with a hint of sadness.

If not for the persistent pain in his side, Sihtric might have believed this was all a dream.

“It’s alright,” you replied softly, setting the linens down beside the bed.

“You need proper care if you’re going to heal.” your voice was strangely calm as you furrowed an eyebrow as if sensing his unease although you couldn’t quite grasp the reason for it.

Sihtric swallowed hard, his gaze shifting away.

“I can manage,” he insisted, though the strain in his voice betrayed his struggle.

You sighed, a gentle smile playing on your lips.

“I know you’re strong, Sihtric. But even the strongest need help sometimes.”

You moved closer, your hands reaching out to remove the old, bloodstained bandages.

His body tensed, and he mustered enough strength to grasp your hand, holding it tightly.

“Why are you so kind to me? Why are you helping me?” he asked, his voice low as he drew a deep, shaky breath. “I could have been your enemy.”

The question caught you off guard. You tilted your head slightly, studying him—the handsome young man before you, his large, expressive eyes locked on yours, searching for answers.

Could you admit that you’d been asking yourself the same question over and over? Could you confess that, in saving him, you had unknowingly saved yourself from the emptiness of your own life—given it purpose, given it meaning?

“Maybe,” you replied softly, “but you’re not my enemy. You needed help, and I was here. Sometimes, it really is that simple.”

The moment of silence stretched on.

Sihtric didn’t release your hand, his grip tightening briefly as if holding on to some last bit of resistance. But then, with a heavy sigh, his defences crumbled, and he loosened his hold, surrendering to your care.

Gently, you reached out and began undoing the bandages.

Sihtric’s gaze followed your movements, a blend of curiosity and something deeper—gratitude mixed with a hint of awe.

“There,” you said softly, tying the last knot. “All done.” You looked up and met his eyes.

The coolness of the fresh bandages against his skin seemed to ease his tension, and he exhaled, the pain dulling under your careful touch.

Sihtric cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “I’m not used to this,” he admitted, his voice low. “Being taken care of.”

Your expression softened as you met his gaze. “Everyone deserves to be cared for,” you said gently.

He looked down, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “You’re kind,” he said, after a moment. “Kinder than I deserve.”

You shook your head, dismissing the doubt in his words. “You deserve kindness, Sihtric,” you replied firmly. “Just like anyone else.”

Sihtric’s fingers brushed yours, hesitantly, as if waiting for you to pull away. But you didn’t. Sensing your acceptance, he took your hand in his, slowly lifting it to his lips.

The kiss he placed on your palm was tender, almost reverent, and lingered longer than you expected.

He wanted to say more—to spill everything he was feeling, to let you know how your kindness had shaken him to the core. He had never met anyone like you.

There was such a beauty in your warmth, in the way you looked at him, in how you cared.

He wanted to tell you that he would give everything he had, even his life, just to see your smile again. To feel deserving of your compassion.

A small, tentative smile finally curved his lips—the first real one you’d seen since he woke. “Thank you,” was the only thing he managed, his voice rough and unsteady, eyes dropping to the floor again.

A week had passed since the young Dane had stumbled into your life.

You had feared he wouldn’t make it.

His sleep was restless, plagued by fevered dreams. He tossed and turned, drenched in sweat, painful moans escaping his lips.

The fever refused to break, and the greedy midwife had demanded a small fortune for a potion that promised to reduce the fever and ease his pain. You paid for it anyway.

Sihtric was incredibly sweet, reminding you of a big child—a big, neglected child, you had to admit.

The first thing he did upon waking was try to leap out of bed, but he didn’t get far, stumbling after the first unsteady steps. You couldn’t help but notice the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks as you helped him back into bed.

The crimson in his cheeks deepened every time he had to accept your help, whether it was eating the broth you prepared or when you insisted on changing his bandages. 

He seemed so confused, even lost, his eyes never leaving you as you moved around the old house. You could feel his gaze, a blend of curiosity and wariness, as if he were trying to make sense of this unexpected sanctuary and the stranger who had offered it. 

Yet beneath the confusion, there was unmistakable gratitude and awe in his eyes, and you clung to it like a drowning man grasping a plank in a stormy sea, letting it become your anchor, something to wrap around yourself like a warm scarf, shielding you from the coldness of the night.

You didn’t ask any questions.

Part of you was too afraid to hear the truth—who he really was, where his injury came from. And another part of you dreaded being asked the same in return.

It was he who eventually broke the silence, telling you that he was Lord Uhtred’s sworn man, wounded during a scouting mission.

Did you believe him? No, not really. But you didn’t let it show.

It was easier this way—two strangers brought together by the unpredictable currents of fate, waiting for the next tide to carry them apart again.

And yet the questions came.

“You know about me,” Sihtric began, his voice tentative, “but I hardly know anything about you. Tell me about your family.”

You hesitated, your hands pausing over the cups with herbal tea you were making. You forced a smile and turned to face him.

“Oh, there’s not much to tell,” you said lightly. “I come from a big family. My father runs the mill in the village and often works late, so I have to help my mother with the household and look after my younger brothers and sisters in the evenings. It keeps me busy,” unable to explain to yourself why it mattered at all, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell the truth. 

Sihtric nodded, his eyes softening with understanding.

“That must be hard, all those responsibilities. But it must also be nice to have such a big family.”

“It is,” you replied, feeling a pang of guilt for the lie. “There’s always something happening, and never a dull moment.”

He smiled, and for a moment, the room seemed to brighten. “It must be nice to have so much noise and life around you. I never had that.”

You nodded, looking away to hide the conflict in your eyes.

“It has its moments,” you said, keeping your tone casual. “But it’s nice to have a bit of quiet now and then, too.”

You knew this couldn’t last.

It felt like a dream—one you dreaded waking from each morning as the first rays of sunlight touched your closed eyelids.

Suddenly, your lonesome refuge had become a home, a place to return to, something to care for. You were needed. 

Each morning, it was as if your feet had grown wings, carrying you swiftly to that old, decrepit house. And each evening, as you reluctantly left Sihtric behind to return to the village, your heart sank with the fear that he might be gone by the time you returned the next day.

Deep down, you knew that day was coming, faster than you wanted to admit.

It was one of those evenings when the moon hung low, perched on the treetops, so large it seemed as though you could touch it if you just stretched out your hand.

Sihtric had been unusually silent all day, and as you prepared a simple meal in the kitchen you struggled to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

He didn’t need to say anything; you could feel it.

The wound on his side had healed remarkably well, thanks more to his youth than your limited healing skills.

“I... I need to…” Sihtric’s voice came from behind you, hesitant.

You paused, hands stilling over the vegetables, and quickly wiped away the salty tears that had slipped down your cheeks. Forcing a smile, you turned to face him.

He stood in the doorway, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your chest tighten.

“I know,” you said, your voice was calmer than you felt inside. “It’s time. You’re well enough now.”

Sihtric nodded, his expression softening. “It is,” he murmured.

There was nothing more to be said.

You nodded, turning back to the table in an attempt to hide the conflict swirling in your eyes.

You didn’t want to cry.

It was foolish, really.

You had known from the start that it would end this way. You were strangers from different worlds, barely knowing each other.

Yet, the ache in your heart told a different story.

You heard Sihtric move closer until he was just behind you, so close that his warm breath grazed the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your grip tightened on the knife as you resumed chopping the vegetables, forcing yourself to focus on the rhythmic movement. Up and down. Up and down. The blade moved faster in your hand, each swing becoming more erratic as your emotions tangled.

Suddenly, two large palms closed gently over yours, halting your frantic motion.

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to steady yourself. Tears welled in the corners of your eyes, and you blinked hard, willing them away.

“You’re different,” Sihtric’s voice was soft, his thumbs lightly brushing against your hands. “You could have turned me away, but you didn’t. I owe you my life.”

Warmth blossomed in your chest, but whatever words were forming on your tongue dissolved into a silent sob that you quickly masked with a sharp inhale.

Sihtric had never been this close before, never intruded into your space so intimately. His muscular frame pressed gently against your back, steady and comforting, but what caught your attention most were his hands—his hands were trembling, just as yours were.

“I don’t know how to repay you,” he whispered, his voice barely above a murmur, filled with something raw, something that tugged at your heart. “But I want to.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, willing yourself to remain calm. You could feel his warmth against your back, and every part of you wanted to turn around, to face him, to let everything you’d been holding back spill out. But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

“There’s nothing to repay,” you said softly, your voice almost breaking. “You don’t owe me anything, Sihtric. I helped because you needed it. That’s all.”

The sensation of Sihtric’s right hand slipping away from yours, travelling slowly up your arm, sent your heart racing wildly.

There were no delicate butterflies in your stomach—there were frogs, leaping and tumbling inside.

His trembling fingers brushed your loose hair aside, revealing your shoulder and neckline.

You sucked in a sharp breath as Sihtric’s warm lips grazed your sensitive skin.

You closed your eyes, a soft whine escaping your lips, mingling with your uneven breath as you involuntarily tilted your head, giving him better access to your neck. A strange heat consumed your senses, making it impossible to focus on anything but his touch.

Sihtric’s breathing quickened, his body pressed more tightly against yours.

You steadied yourself, bracing your hands against the table to keep from losing balance.

“Sihtric...” you breathed, a surprised whimper slipping out as you instinctively pushed back, only to feel the unmistakable hardness of his growing arousal against your body.

Sihtric instantly pulled away, and you finally turned to face him, his hands slipping away as embarrassment flickered across his handsome features.

It wasn’t a conscious movement on your part, but more an instinct—driven by the fear of losing this moment, of letting go of something you had both craved and feared all along. Without thinking, you reached out, grasping his hand and pulling him closer, your other hand reaching for his chin as your foreheads gently touched.

“I... I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sihtric whispered, his gaze dropping as his breath warmed your skin. His voice was hoarse, raw, and even somewhat trembling. “Please, just tell me to stop. Tell me I’m a fool for wanting something I have no right to.”

“Sihtric, look at me,” you murmured, biting your lip as the ache in your chest grew.

Slowly, you reached out cupping Sihtric’s face in your palms, gently guiding his head back toward you. You didn’t speak, but your thumb traced the curve of his lips, silently urging him to understand that you felt the same pull, the same desire. 

“I... I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to...” he stammered, uncertainty rippling through his tense body and before he could pull away or before doubt could grip you both, you rose onto your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his, cutting off the words that never came.

A soft, involuntary moan escaped him, melting into the kiss.

You had imagined this moment so many times.

Foreign hands roaming your body, bruising demanding, you had dreamt of this gentle, hesitant kiss like a promise waiting to be fulfilled, soft and filled with reverence you hadn’t expected.

It was everything you’d longed for, and more. 

As the kiss deepened, the sweetness gave way to something more urgent, more consuming. Sihtric's initial surprise and hesitation melted into raw passion.

Your fingers tangled in his braided hair, pulling him closer, drawing another delicious moan from his lips.

His rough, calloused fingers caressed your back, tracing slow, deliberate paths along your spine, his breath growing heavier, more rugged, betraying his youthful eagerness.

You knew this would be the last time you’d see him. There was no future for the two of you—just this fleeting, fiery moment.

The thought twisted in your chest, knowing it would leave your heart aching, raw with longing for what could never be. But it didn’t stop you. It only made you crave him more.

It was anyway more than you could dream of, more than someone like you deserved.

You didn’t care anymore about keeping up the charade of the modest miller’s daughter. At this moment, it didn’t matter.

You were who you were, and you craved him—this young, handsome and strong, yet sweetly hesitant man who touched you as if you were made of fragile glass. You wanted this to be a memory worth keeping, for both of you.

With a confident tug, you hooked your fingers into the hem of his breeches and pulled him flush against you, crushing your lips to his in another kiss that was hungry, deep, and filled with all the passion you had kept inside.

In a swift, determined motion, you turned him around, pressing him against the table.

He let you.

Sihtric would let you do anything. His world was spinning.

From the moment he’d first opened his eyes and met your gaze, filled with warmth and care, he had craved you. He had craved this.

Even the dull ache in his side couldn’t stop the way his body responded to your touch, how his breeches grew tighter each time your hands brushed his skin while tending to his wound, his blood staining your fingers.

He had nothing to offer in return for your kindness—no riches, no freedom. And yet, if he could, he would pull every star from the sky and lay them at your feet.

But even himself, he could not offer. Bound by his oath to Lord Uhtred, he was not free.

He was sure you wouldn’t accept him anyway. After all, he was a Dane, a bastard and a warrior, and you—a Saxon maiden, with a life rooted in the stability and safety of your village. A life where there was no room for the uncertainty that would surely follow if you were bound to him.

It was a mystery to him why you were even tending to him, why you were here at all.

And now, your lips on his had set his mind spinning in a whirlwind of emotions he had never felt before.

Sihtric’s wide eyes tracked your every movement, his breath catching in his throat as your hands skillfully untied the laces of his breeches.

“Oh, gods,” he hissed, and you couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you watched him shudder, his sharp breath filling the air between you as your hand boldly slipped inside, stroking his fully hard length before freeing it from the confines of his breeches. 

You kept stroking it, slowly, teasingly from root to tip, as you licked your lips, listening to the soft gasps, escaping Sihtric as his beautifully formed and thick cock twitched and pulsed under your touch.

You leaned in, rolling up his tunic as your teeth lightly grazed the hard muscle of his abdomen.

A heavy moan escaped him, and you felt him suddenly hold his breath.

Smiling, you let your lips trail further down, but just as quickly, his hands shot out to grasp yours, stopping you.

“Wait... no, let me...” he murmured, his voice thick. "Let me take care of you."

In one fluid motion, Sihtric pulled you back to your feet and spun you around with such ease, it stole the breath from your lungs.

You had always suspected he was strong, despite his slender frame, but the way he handled you like you weighed nothing sent a shiver down your spine.

Sihtric’s fingers brushed along your jawline, his rough palms framing your face with a tenderness that nearly broke you and you blinked back the tears threatening to blur your vision.

“Will you let me have you?” his voice was soft and pleading, eyes dark with lust, searching yours for an answer. 

Suddenly unable to find your voice you just nodded, letting your teeth graze your bottom lip as your fingers slipped under his tunic, eager to explore again the tight planes of muscle beneath his skin.

This time, your touch wasn’t filled with the care of tending to his wounds, but with burning passion, with unrestrained desire.

You needed him closer—needed to feel his breath mingling with yours, his lips on your bare skin. You longed to hear him moan your name, to feel his breath hitch as he made you his, even if it was only for this brief moment of shared bliss.

A low hiss escaped your lips as Sihtric’s hands began to hurriedly bunch your dress up your thighs, his calloused fingertips grazing your skin. His eyes flicked up to yours, questioning, as if giving you a moment to reconsider—to stop him.

Impatience coursing through your veins, you took over, pulling the dress over your head and discarding it carelessly on the floor. The same urgency drove your hands as you pulled his tunic off and helped him get out of his breeches, leaving nothing between your bodies.

Sihtric’s large hands gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly and setting you down on the table. The half-prepared supper clattered to the floor, forgotten, as he hastily cleared the space for you.

You spread your legs, inviting him closer, craving the warmth of his body against yours.

“Please, let me taste you,” the raw, husky tone of his voice made your core clench around nothing. 

“You can do whatever you want with me, Sihtric. I’m yours,” you whimpered as you let him urge you down until your back met the rough wooden surface of the table. 

You felt his hot breath on your skin as he placed a wet, open-mouth kiss on your ankle.

You closed your eyes, shivering in lust, as his lips travelled up your leg. You gasped loudly, feeling his lips getting closer to your pulsing core, placing a lingering kiss on your inner thigh. 

His hands took hold of your hips and then with a soft whimper he licked over your slit.

You moaned, your hands gripping the edge of the table, back arching against the wooden surface. It felt so sinfully beautiful, like a forbidden pleasure you knew you shouldn’t want but couldn’t resist, like tasting temptation itself and craving more with every breath.

Each lap of Sihtric’s hot tongue against your pearl drew another loud moan from you.

You slid your fingers into his hair and pulled hard on them.

Sihtric hissed, not letting go of you, as his tongue started to circle your pulsing bundle and his lips nipped and sucked at it, making you squirm and whine as stars exploded behind your tightly closed eyes.

He took you gently, slowly, almost hesitantly pushing forward into you, his eyes locked with yours, his sweaty, shaky palms, pinning your hips down on the rough surface of the table, betraying his nervousness.  

You gasped, feeling his length stretching and filling you, your core throbbing with a greedy need. 

Sihtric moaned as he finally sheathed fully inside of you. He stilled. Eyes locked with yours he savoured your walls taking him in and clenching around him.

The feeling of him buried deep inside of you made your walls flutter in arousal and need, you dug your fingers into his flesh, pushing your hips against him, begging for more.

And he gave you more.

Sihtric pulled out, before pushing forward again and then again, his movements tormentingly slow but thorough, driving you mad with want and desire.

Spurred by the lewd sounds rolling over your lips, his thrusts started to pick up pace until he was pounding into you, his hips meeting yours with every move.

“Oh god, Sihtric, you feel so good, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you mewled, clawing at his skin. 

You glanced up at the young Dane through your lashes, taking in the sight of him as he thrusted into you—his flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes rolling back into his head, breath catching and lips parted in deep, intoxicating groans—worshipping you like you had never been worshipped before.

He was completely entranced by you, utterly under your spell, and the sight of him like this—vulnerable and beautiful—was one you knew you would never forget as you cursed and thanked fate in equal measure for bringing you together in this secluded, forgotten place.

“Please, don’t stop, don’t ever let go of me,” you whispered, barely aware of the words escaping your lips, lost in the moment, already too far gone, too close to the edge.

“I won’t. You’re mine. Forever mine,” Sihtric’s voice reached you through the haze clouding your mind, his words wrapping around you like a promise, solid and unwavering, making your walls start clenching around him.

Sihtric pulled you up, pressing his forehead against yours as he continued to thrust into you, his strong arms holding you close, securing you against him.

His lips found your neck, kissing, sucking and bruising your soft skin with his teeth, his breath panting and his moans growing stronger and heavier with each thrust, mingling with yours.

“Forever mine,” he breathed in your ear, the sweet promise in his words adding the last weight to tip the scales and sending you tumbling over the edge.

Your climax hit you with a force of a tempest, filling you with pure bliss as tears welled up in your eyes.

Thighs trembling and head spinning, your whole body shook while hot waves of pleasure washed over you as Sihtric fucked you through your peak, his panting breath, laced with strained, twitching moans, hot against the skin of your neck as he came only a few moments later. 

You knew the old house would be empty, greeting you with the same heavy silence it always had. And yet, as you pushed open the creaking wooden door, you held your breath, a flicker of hope still lingering in your chest.

“I will come back. You’ll see. There’s nothing in this world that can keep me away from you,” he had whispered, holding you tightly against his chest.

“Not even your oath?” you had asked, lifting your gaze to meet his.

He didn’t reply at first, his mismatched, searching eyes darkening as he looked down at you. Then, almost hesitantly, he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you.

His embrace was strong but gentle, as if he still feared you might pull away. But you didn’t.

You leaned into him, feeling his heartbeat against yours, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill that had settled in your bones.

“Not even my oath,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair.

Did you believe him? No, not really.

Now, your footsteps echoed through the empty rooms, a hollow ache settling in your chest as the crushing truth hit you. 

Your gaze fell on a single, delicate white flower in a vase on the table. It stood out against the emptiness, a painful remainder of something gone, something lost forever.

Slowly, you sank to the floor, the weight of it all breaking you. Uncontrollable sobs shook your body as a loud cry tore through you, the tiny shimmer of hope you had clung to slipping away with each tear.

The tavern buzzed with activity that evening, a small party of warriors having stopped in the village.

Their presence initially sent villagers into their homes, shutters drawn tight in fear. But the clink of silver flowing freely from the warriors' hands as they ordered food and ale quickly spread, and the fear began to dissipate.

Curiosity took hold, and soon the tavern filled with villagers eager to strike a bargain or sell their wares. It promised to be a profitable night for everyone—especially the tavern’s ladies.

Hearing how generous the strangers were, you had pulled your best dress from the old chest, carefully checking for any loose stitches before slipping it on.

The voices and laughter from downstairs grew louder as you descended into the bustling, lively room, mingling easily between the tables, your eyes scanning for the strangers in hopes of catching their attention.

A booming voice cut through the din, drawing your gaze to a table where several men sat, one of them clearly the leader.

The girls had whispered that the others called him "Lord."

You mustered your most enticing smile as you neared, eager to catch his eye—until a snippet of their conversation froze you in place.

Your eyes went wide, shock coursing through you, the noise of the tavern fading as the weight of what you were hearing settled in.

“Sihtric, you did what you could. Sometimes you just have to accept things as they are,” the man said, stepping aside and placing a hand on his companion’s shoulder.

“There isn’t even a mill in this village. There’s no point in asking for the miller’s daughter. She didn’t want to be found.”

“It can’t be,” Sihtric’s voice trembled, his grip tightening around the ale mug. “She told me... she said she loved me. The night before I left, she said she loved me.”

"Maybe she loved your cock,” came a mocking chuckle from a bearded man with a thick Irish accent, earning a desperate, angry glare from Sihtric.

“Sihtric,” Uhtred interjected, his tone gentler now, "none of what she told you about herself or her family was true. I spoke to the innkeeper. You need to forget her."

Sihtric’s gaze lifted slowly from the floor, his cheeks flushed with the weight of shame and disbelief. As he turned to face Uhtred, his eyes caught the figure of a young woman standing nearby, unmistakably one of the tavern's whores.

You wanted to run, but your body refused to obey. Your feet felt rooted to the floor as you watched recognition and surprise flicker in Sihtric's eyes as he stood.

It seemed impossible, yet it was true—your dearest dream and worst nightmare had collided into reality.

With the last remnants of your strength, you forced yourself to turn away. Your legs wobbled like jelly as you stumbled toward the door, using the tables for support. Behind you, Sihtric's voice called your name, spurring you forward.

You reached the door, shoving it open before tumbling down the steps outside. You hit the ground but scrambled back to your feet, desperation driving you. Shame and embarrassment burned at your heels as you broke into a run.

"Wait! Please, stop!" Sihtric’s voice rang out behind you.

Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you back against a broad chest.

You fought against it, struggling to free yourself, pounding your fists against the leather armour covering him. Hot tears streamed down your cheeks.

"Let me go!" you cried, your strength and resistance fading as his unyielding grip held firm. "Now you know!" you sobbed, your voice cracking. "Now you know everything. Just... please, let me go."

Hurt etched across Sihtric’s handsome face as he loosened his hold, but your strength had left you.

Without his support, you sank to the ground, trembling with sobs.

"So it was all a lie?" you heard him ask, his voice strained. "You didn’t mean it? But why?" His voice nearly broke with the question.

"Why does it matter?" you cried, burying your face in your hands. "You'd never want me if you knew who I really am."

"But you know that's not true," Sihtric said, crouching down beside you, his hands grasping your shoulders. "Look at me. Please, just look at me," he pleaded, his voice so full of emotion it made your chest ache.

Slowly, you withdrew your hands from your face, tears blurring your vision, as you reluctantly met Sihtric’s gaze.

His eyes, though pained, were full of something you hadn’t expected—understanding. His hands tightened gently on your shoulders, steadying you as you trembled.

“Do you think I care about that?” he asked, his voice soft but firm. 

Your breath hitched, disbelief swirling in your chest. “But I lied to you, Sihtric. I told you things that weren’t true. I’m not who you thought I was.”

He shook his head, his grip on you firm and unwavering. “You are exactly who I thought you were. You’re the woman who saved me when I had nothing, who didn’t judge or despise me for what I am, who cared for me when I was weak. You’re the woman I can’t stop thinking about.”

His words sent a wave of warmth through you, but you still felt the weight of shame dragging you down. “But I’m not the miller’s daughter. I’m no one. I’m just...”

Sihtric cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle but insistent. “You are everything to me,” he whispered, his forehead pressing lightly against yours. Sihtric’s fingers gently trailed the contours of your face, his thumb lightly pecking your lips, as he lifted up your chin.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. The hurt, the shame, the fear—they all melted away under the weight of his words. His touch was steady, his presence grounding. You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of him soothe the storm inside you.

“I don’t deserve you,” you murmured, barely able to voice the words.

“Maybe I don’t deserve you,” he countered softly, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. 

His lips met yours in a kiss so gentle, so tender, that it sent a wave of warmth through you, stirring something deep inside—a longing so powerful it left you breathless.

With trembling fingers, you cupped his face, pulling him closer, as if you couldn’t get enough of him. And when you finally pulled away, a sense of lightness washed over you, as if a burden you had carried for far too long had suddenly lifted.

“What now?” you whispered, your voice trembling with both hope and uncertainty.

“Don’t you remember?” Sihtric chuckled softly. “You are mine, forever mine.” His arms wrapped around you, holding you close.

Did you believe him? For the first time, yes, you did.

[probablyasocialecologist]

In Almería lies the world's largest concentration of commercial greenhouses, often referred to as ‘the sea of plastic’. This vast expanse of polytunnels, housing millions of kilos of fruits and vegetables mainly destined for export, stretches for hundreds of kilometers, a white panorama until the horizon. Also within this sea of plastic dwell the migrant workers who work to ensure Europe's supermarkets are stocked year-round. While they perform the vital task of ensuring Europe's all-season access to fresh produce, these workers often live in a state of physical and institutional vulnerability. This state of affairs remained largely hidden, until recent shocks like the Covid-19 pandemic and armed conflicts exposed the fragility of our food supply chains. Spain issues approximately 150,000 permits annually for seasonal laborers (European Parliament 2021). However, within just the province of Almería, there are more than 100,000 migrants working in greenhouses, 80% of them holding undocumented status in the country. This lack of legal recognition leaves the workers off official records, denying them universal rights such as labour rights and access to formal rental contracts. It is a dire situation that forces many to call the shanty towns surrounding the greenhouses their homes. During my research, I often heard how some workers pay up to 6,000 euros annually to greenhouse managers for the working contracts necessary to seek legal status in the country, turning the quest for legalization into a profitable business.  Almería serves as a primary entry point for migrants traveling from West and North African countries to Europe. For those who cross the Mediterranean without visas - the majority of greenhouse laborers - this work is virtually the only option for income generation on arrival. While informal greenhouse jobs provide financial support to workers and their families back in their home countries, they also perpetuate vulnerability in livelihoods and employment, highlighting and embedding a stark contrast between EU citizens enjoying affordable food and the undocumented migrant workers compelled to work in precarious conditions to provide it.

[seat-safety-switch]

"No, no, no. You misunderstand. This is elf checkout."

Ever since we opened that portal to the fantasy dimension, we've been dealing with a lot of labour strife. Thanks to me taking down that Nissan Atlas that kept running over all those teenagers and sending them to become great warriors in another world, the portal has been swarmed constantly with immigrants. Those nice folks just want to work in a place with central heating and air conditioning, and where bandits are unlikely to chop off their heads or blow up their homes with lightning spells.

We had to expect that big business would take advantage of the portal. For instance, it wasn't even a week until we caught an oil company executive trying to dispose of barrels of tailing-pond waste over in Not-Narnia. He cried like a little baby, especially when Great Warrior Carl (I don't know his last name) booted his ass through the doorway and he got dissolved by a green slime. Sort of appropriate, honestly, but I digress. Anyway, one of the other things that big business did was take advantage of low-priced, precarious labour.

See, these poor rubes were so overwhelmed by our modern society that they agreed to basically anything. That's how we ended up with elf checkouts, which replaced the old expensive scanning robots with magical beings who were attuned to nature, had pointy ears, and didn't know the phone number for the labour ministry. It's hard to avoid the sense that they are being exploited, something which absolutely puts a downer on my shopping trip.

Write your representative today: authorize a tactical nuclear strike on Grobnar the Destroyer's Skull Fortress, so that these wretches can go back home.

[god-has-entered-my-body]

Please be naked - Matty Healy

A/N: remember when i said i was done? false. @awellposhmagazine you sweetheart ilysm and i hope u dont die. @beforeyougo-turnthebiglightoff thank u for your slave labour in finding the lyric for this fic xx

wc: 4.5k

content warnings: smut, fluff, use of sex toys (butt plug, strap), pegging, edging, exhibitionism, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, degradation but in a sweet way, praise, face-sitting, restraint (she holds him down), teasing, lots and lots of condescension, begging, the return of the little red kia, it gets weirdly poetic towards the end, two kinky knobheads in love

Matty was bold, always has been. Personal boundaries? Shame? Embarrassment? All foreign concepts to him. Evident in the way he spoke before he thought, blurting out strings of words that didn't even make sense most of the time. His behavior was no different, always going for the shock factor whenever interacting with you. 

Which is why you were now standing in the middle of your shared bedroom, eyes flicking between him and the small, plastic device in your hand. He had strolled into the room awfully giddy, topless and grinning at you wildly, holding something in the palm of his hand, stopping right in front of you. You raised your eyebrows as he pressed the remote against your chest, it taking you a while to recognise it. 

Eyes widening and staring at the object, you looked back at matty who had this mischievous glint in his eye, obviously plotting something. Your words caught in your throat when you tried to speak, struggling to form coherent sentences. 

“Is this-?” you try to confirm that he was, in fact, standing in front of you with a buttplug in his arse. Matty wasn't shy, nodding his head slowly as it clicks in your head. It wasn't an impulse purchase, per se, just a surprising one. Matty had gone back to that same sex shop multiple times, even making friends with the owner (because of course he would), purchasing a multitude of odd toys to ‘gift’ to you. But only one of them genuinely took you by surprise: a black buttplug, holographic shimmers decorating the base.   

“Yeah.” he breathes, squirming around on his spot, running his fingers through his freshly washed hair. You choose your next words carefully. 

“And you-” Maybe he was taking the piss? A cruel joke, but you wouldn't put it past him.

“I’m wearing it.”

“But- we’re about to go-”

You cut yourself off, a thousand thoughts racing through your mind. The two of you had made plans with your mates, agreeing to meet up at a sort of bar-restaurant thing that had recently opened a few blocks down from your house. Was this really the best time to pull a stunt like this?

“I know. I want you to do it while we’re out.” he takes a step closer, brushing his fingers against your waist, refusing to touch you properly. Your heart beats erratically in your chest, and you try to breath steadily, composing yourself

“I want you to make me moan in your ear while our friends watch.” 

You had always had this sneaking, sneaking suspicion about your boyfriend and his penchant for attention. His loud and pretentious manner drew people in, watching him with a certain look in their eye that he absolutely relished in.

You're snapped back to the present moment as he turns on the heel of his foot, walking towards the door and away from you. He’d closed it on his way in out of pure habit, not realizing the precarious position he had put himself in. 

Your body moved a bit quicker than your mind, hand making contact with his lower back as you forced him forward against the closed door. He yelps as his cheek smushes against the cool wood, muffling his gasps as you feel him up from behind.

Your hands run up his bare chest, catching his pierced nipple between two of your fingers, tweaking it harshly.

His breathing speeds up as you grind against his arse, pressing your body flush against him and in turn, pressing him up against the door even harder. His skin is smooth under your touch, goosebumps breaking out wherever your fingertips danced, a small sigh of satisfaction leaving your lips. 

“Think you can just order me around? Have me do whatever you want?” your voice is low in his ear, your free hand running over the controls of the remote you were holding. This sudden change of pace makes Matty’s head spin, disorienting him right when he thought he had bested you, leaving you speechless. You tap the device against his hip, feeling him twitch slightly at the sudden pressure.

“I’m going to make you regret it. Wish you never gave this pretty little thing to me.” you coo into his ear, condescension coating your words. 

The click is soft, but his reaction is anything but. Matty, always so sure of himself, had bought one specifically designed to directly stimulate the prostate when inserted, the vibrations only amplifying the sensation. His knees weakened under him, the only thing holding his body up being the weight of yours pressing him up against the door.

Turning the toy off, you sigh and let him go, making him fall to the floor at the sudden loss of support. He yelps as his knees hit the hard floorboards, eyes darting up to meet yours while he tries to steady his breathing, willing himself to not get hard.

“I’ll be downstairs.” you say, and he can only nod in response, scrambling to get up and finish getting dressed, the plug shifting inside him with every move he makes, small groans spilling from his parted lips. 

It takes longer than usual for Matty to finish up, meeting you at the front door dressed in the same jeans you had left him in, paired with a yellow t-shirt, slightly too small for him. You chuckle at the sight, a small sliver of skin being revealed by the too-short fabric. 

The place was a short walk away, maybe ten minutes if you walked fast. It saved Hann the pain of having to drive and pick you up, whining about the cost of gas and how his car wouldn't be able to take much more if he was constantly chauffeuring the two of you around (you find he was overreacting a bit, but it is his car).

The process of putting on your respective shoes is done in silence, the tension thick in the air as you take your keys off the hook, stuffing them into your pocket. Matty was right behind you, fastenting the straps of his boots, the clanging metal impossibly loud in the echo of the foyer.

Sun hits your face the moment you step outside, welcoming the comfortable warmth it brought with it, a soft breeze blowing through your hair. The click of your shoes against the pavement was even, the road fairly empty as you walked, hand in hand, Matty’s fingers tightly clasping yours. 

The restaurant/pub was more Ross’ aesthetic, the earthy, wooden exterior not really what you were used to. You could feel Matty speed up as you neared the entrance, excited to finally see his mates again, have a drink and talk shit. Your hand moves away from his, gently settling on his lower back, stopping him in his tracks as he grasps the door handle, about to pull it open. 

You bring your lips to his ear, his hair slightly in the way, curls brushing against your face lightly.

“You going to behave?” you whisper, warning him. His smirk tells you all you need to know before he even opens his mouth to speak.

“In your wildest dreams.” he blows you a cheeky kiss and flings the door wide open, cutting off your retort.

Ross and Hann greet him first, lifting their pints in his direction. His laugh as he sees them is infectious, making you crack a fond smile as they all hug, Matty sliding into the booth next to Ross. George gets up from his chair, pulling you in for a tight hug and saying how nice it was to see you and Matty, pushing a french martini in your direction.

“I could kiss you.” you say, bringing the glass up to your lips, taking a grateful sip. George chuckles, his deep voice oddly comforting.

“No need, pretty sure Matty would stab my eyes out.”

“What would I do!?” Matty yells at him, only catching a small part of his sentence, too engrossed in his storytelling to listen to his answer. You wave your hand in dismissal, turning your attention to Matty’s story, a detailed recount of his first kiss. 

How he got to that topic within ten minutes of entering the joint was beyond you, but you listened, laughing at the gross descriptions of the girls lips, using way too many adjectives Ross didn't even know existed. 

The remote is heavy in your pocket, burning a hole into your skin as an idea pops into your head.

He chats animatedly, his voice loud and booming, so unmistakably him. 

“Genuinely tasted like sand, nearly impossible to get any real acti-” you cut him off by clicking the toy on, his eyes immediately widening at the sensation. He chokes a bit, his words coming out weird and in bits before he decides to try and cover it up with a cough. The guys give him a weird look and you play along, raising your eyebrows at him. 

“Alright, Matty?” Ross asks, taking a sip of his pint at the sudden, awkward silence. You grin at him, turning the vibrations down a bit so he could speak.

“Everythings good, just got a fucked throat.” he smooth talks his way out of it, glaring at you from across the table as the conversation shifts.

You continue toying with him, playing with the remote mindlessly as the minute tick by, another round of drinks being bought by Hann. Whenever he goes to speak, you make a point to turn the vibrations up, even if only a little bit, just to watch him squirm in his seat, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

“Mate, you look wrecked. Sure you're okay?” Hann presses a paternal hand to his head, checking his temperature. Matty was flushed a bright shade of pink, a look of pleasure on his face only you could truly recognise, having seen him in this exact position a thousand times. Yearning, begging, willing to do anything just to finally have some relief.

“Y-yeah sorry, I must've caught something.” he forces out, a slight edge to his voice as you eye him, catching a suspicious glance from George next to you.

“Go home then, I'll even drive you back.” he offers, earning a groan from the other two men. Apologizing, you offer to buy everyone a round on you as a peace offering for leaving early. Hann promises to come back after, not letting Matty’s little bout of illness ruin a perfectly good outing. If only they knew.

He’s a bit sick I reckon, nothing a good rest cant fix.” you move to get up, brushing off your jeans as you shuffle out of the booth, watching Matty closely.

“Dickhead.” he mutters as he passes by, being led to the car by Adam. You grin from ear to ear, taking your revenge.

“Watch it, sweetheart.” you click the vibrator on higher, making his knees buckle and he falls into your arms, a look of betrayal, mixed with undeniable pleasure, evident on his face.

“Jesus, Matty, let's get you home.” you mutter, your voice one of faux-concern as you stroke his hair, half carrying him to the car.

The car ride is oddly quiet, Hann making casual conversation as Matty curls up in the backseat, knees to his chest, feigning illness. The radio plays softly in the background, some country stuff that was popular.

“No music commentary today? Pretty sure this is Taylor Swift.” you chuckle at your mates words, watching Matty’s reaction in the rearview mirror. 

“She’s fit.” His voice is slightly raspy, teasing as he makes eye contact through the reflection, almost as if challenging you. You roll your eyes, a prick of jealousy bubbling up inside of you.

“Not as fit as my girl though.” he adds, making Hann groan in disgust.

“I don't need to bear witness to your weird flirting. It's bad enough having to watch you drunk snog every week.” 

Even though you tried to keep your affection to a minimum around the guys, with alcohol being thrown into the mix it was impossible to keep your hand off each other. The brick wall of the alleyway behind the bar had seen a lot of makeout sessions, and more often than not, Hann or George would walk out for a smoke right when Matty was shoving his tongue down your throat.

“Why do you watch us? Might be a sign, mate.” Matty mumbles, kicking the back of the driver's seat aggressively, making it shake.

“I hope you choke.”

“So does she.” he sniggers, wiggling his eyebrows at an exhausted Adam, at his limit with Matty’s bullshit for the day.

“Ugh, please stop.” 

You wave goodbye to him and walk up to the front door, unlocking it swiftly as Matty trails behind you, legs weak and barely holding himself upright as the toy buzzed inside of him. He lets out a string of gasps as you turn it up, clicking a total of two times with an intention to overwhelm him. 

“What's wrong, love? Too much?” you ask, cupping his face with your left hand. His eyes are glazed over, tears threatening to spill as pleasure radiates through his entire body.

“F-fuck me, jesus thats high.” he pants, chest heaving as you grin, satisfied.

“You picked it out.”

“Not to be used against me.” he shoots back, slowly getting used to the sensation, his mind clearing enough to speak properly.

“And whose fault is that?” you press your lips to his in a chaste kiss, the weight of you against him driving him insane, getting lost in your touch. Pulling away suddenly, you put a bit of distance between the two of you.

“Fuck you-” he cuts himself off with a choked moan, his hand twitching as he attempted to stand up straight.

“Go upstairs and wait nice and pretty for me, yeah? I'll be right there.”

He moves faster than you expect, stumbling up the stairs in the direction of your shared bedroom, his footsteps heavy.

You know exactly what you want to do, the whole day building up to this exact moment. Gathering a few items from a certain box that lived on the shelf in your living room, simple and unassuming, you follow his path, peeling off your shirt as you walk, discarding it somewhere in the hallway.

Matty is naked on the bed when you enter the room, back slightly arched as the plug pressed up against his prostate, his cock hard and aching, leaking all over the sheets. Your heart skips a beat when he smirks at you, his hair thrown carelessly over his face curls obscuring a small part of it.

“No strip-tease today?” he shakes his head, smug expression wiped from his face as his eyes fall on your chest, clad in only a simple, black bra.

“Can’t fucking- please darling, please I need you so bad.” he whimpers, hips bucking upwards as you dangle the remote in front of him, kneeling onto the bed between his legs.

You look up at him with an innocent expression, eyes wide as you watch him squirm, so desperate for your touch it made him dizzy.

“What do you want from me?” you whisper, the edge to your voice making Matty still. Obviously, he was expecting more of a fight, more begging, more effort. You were in a different sort of mood today, much to his delight. 

“Sit on my face, make me earn it, please. Wanna taste you on my tongue, make you feel so good.” he moans, the toy making him see stars behind his eyes. Matty’s in a daze that only happens every so often, his cocky and arrogant demeanor nowhere to be seen. Instead, it's replaced by a look of utter devotion, willingness to give up every fiber of himself to you, hand over his mind, body, and soul, placing it carefully in your hands.

“So eager.”

“Only for you.”

His cock twitches against his stomach as you peel off your jeans, your panties quick to follow suit, gone in a pile on the floor. Eyes trained on you, he watches how you shuffle upwards, glistening cunt hovering over his mouth in anticipation. His hands come up to grip your thighs, attempting to pull you down onto him, your resistance making him frown.

“I don’t want to crush you.” you murmur, a small moment of weakness in a situation where you held all the power. He looks at you confused before reassuringly shaking his head, running his fingers over your cunt, making you gasp in pleasure.

“Please.” his voice cracks, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine at the simple word.

Lowering yourself onto him, he tugs you completely onto his mouth, not letting you hover. The room instantly fills with your moans, the sounds bouncing off the walls and going straight to his cock, beads of precum spilling from his tip.

The toy buzzes against his prostate, making him whimper against your cunt as you play with the settings, never letting him get used to it before switching it up. His tongue laps at your clit, sucking it between his lips, creating a delicious suction he knew made your mind go blank. You grab onto the metal bed frame for stability, back arching as the pleasure between your legs took over your entire body.

You hear him whine beneath you, the pressure of the plug getting to be too much, his hips bucking wildly for any sort of friction, being met with only air. The obscenity of his actions only spurs you on, filthy words falling from your lips as your orgasm rapidly approaches.

“So good for me, eating me all messy. Like it when I tell you how good you're being for me?” you breath, words broken up by gasps of pleasure as he draws figure eights on your clit with his tongue. His curls stick to his forehead, the room stinking of sex and his fucking perfume, clinging to his skin like some kind of sex pollen.

“Fuck, i’m so close, please make me cum.” you breathe, looking down to rake your eyes over his face, being met with a blissed out expression as he shoves his way inside of you, tongue stroking your velvety walls.

“Oh fuck, fuck, right there just keep doing that.” he lets you grind against his face, licking a thick stripe over your folds, making you shudder as your climax hits you like a freight train, pleasure crashing over you in mind numbing waves, your legs clamping around his head.

It takes you longer than normal to catch your breath, your skin sticky with sweat as you pant, shuffling down his body to settle on his hips, his cock grinding against your arse from behind.

“So good, love the way you clench around my tongue.” you cringe, screwing your eyes shut at his choice of words. You flush a deep shade of red when he winks at you, licking his lips provocatively, refusing to break eye contact.

“You're so filthy, can you at least try to use metaphors? Christ.”

“Nah, much better seeing you blush for me.” an exasperated sigh leaves your lips, looking unimpressed by his attempt at a flirt. You’d believe he was only joking, purely messing around if it wasn't for the way his cock leaked onto the sheets, twitching at every vibration of the toy inside of him.

“God, your ego is huge.”

“Not the only thing that's huge.” jesus.

“Oh, fuck off, honestly.”

“Only if you promise to fuck me first.” his tone changes, and you know he’s deadly serious.

His eyes flicker over to the strap laying innocently on the bed, silently begging you to have some sort of mercy.

“Did it feel good, almost having the guys catch you?” you ask, lowering your voice as you reach for the toy, your movements excruciatingly slow. He shuffles under you, one of his arms lazily resting behind his head, trying to appear lax.

“Felt even better seeing you watch me, trying to get me to react.” you giggle, his words ringing painfully true.

The whole point of playing with the controls was to see exactly what made him squirm, moan against his glass and attempt to cover the whole thing up with a cough, eyes desperate to find yours as you chatted to George, pretending to be blissfully unaware of his little predicament.

“You did, didnt you?” of course he did, how could he not?

“You try having a massive plug pressed up against your prostate for an hour.”

“Youre so vulgar, fuck's sake.” you groan, pressing a hand to your forehead in disappointment. You loved him, but Matty’s choice of words was incredibly unsexy at times, ruining the mood.

“Just-” he starts, cut off by his own gasp, the toy shifting inside him slightly, hitting his G-spot with jarring accuracy.

“What?” you tease, narrowing your eyes at him as he flushes a deep crimson, the blush spreading from his face down to his chest, making your heart skip a beat.

“Just- fuck me, i’ve been ready for you since-” he yelps when your hands find his waist, maneuvering him onto his stomach, quite aggressively at that. His face is pushed into a decorative pillow, muffling his sounds of protests, much to your delight.

“Since?”

“Since you pressed me up against that door.” he mumbles, rutting against the mattress, an attempt at some kind of relief, having spent the better part of two hours right on that edge, nothing substantial to push him off it.

“Really? Must’ve been pretty painful, walking around hard where our mates could see you.” You think back to Ross’ weird look. Matty had already let slip that he told him more than was necessary, the thought making you shudder. Imagine if he knew the actual reason you had left in such a hurry, desperate to get home to ‘nurse Matty back to health’.

“Please, darling, I'm so ready for it, just let go. Fuck me so dumb I cant think. I deserve it.” he moans, pressing his hips towards you, arching his back. You catch a glimpse of the plug, the sight making your heart speed up, thrumming against your ribcage as you fumble with the strap, using his little ramble to slip it over your hips, tightening the clasps.

“You deserve it, do you?” your mouth is right against his ear as you lean over him, pressing the tip of the flush against his arse. The remote is abandoned on the other side of the bed, too out of reach for you to turn down the toy, leaving Matty helpless and twitching, the pleasure being just too little to make him cum. He lets out an infuriated groan when you chuckle, the bed creaking as you get comfortable on your knees.

“What you deserve.” you whisper into his ear, hearing his breath hitch at the proximity. “Is to be fucking destroyed.” he gasps, feeling your fingertips ghost over the base of the plug before slowly slipping it out of him, leaving him empty and wanting.

“Please.” The word is small, miniscule as he trembles under your touch, his body limp against the mattress. 

You take your time, pressing the tip of the strap against his entrance, teasing him until he jerks under you, his voice high pitched and exhausted, yearning for any kind of relief. Brushing his hair out of his face, you grab his jaw, making his neck crane to look at you. His eyes are wide, an insatiable hunger evident in them.

Sultry moans spill from his lips as you press inside of him, barely giving him a moment to breathe before thrusting out, setting a fast-paced rhythm as he writhed against you, grinding back onto the strap like his life depended on it.

“Fuck, thats so good, oh my- yesyesyes.” he whines, hands moving down to grip his cock. You catch him before he does, pinning his wrists above his head as you relentlessly drill into him, drinking every noise he makes.

“So deep, shit. Fuck me, god- harder.” your stomach flips, the sound of him begging you to take him even harder making you feel dizzy with power. He groans against the pillow when you speed up, one of your hands gripping his waist for leverage, hitting his prostate with scary accuracy.

“Harder, yeah? I’m going to take you apart bit by bit, love, make you scream my name until your throat is actually sore.”

“Feel how good I fuck you? Reduce you to little pieces at my feet where you belong.” you're drunk with power, Matty’s twitching and desperate frame beneath you sending you to another plane of existence, making you believe that if there truly was a heaven, this would be it.

“I’m yours, fuck- all yours- Please, don’t stop.” his eyes water at the force of your thrusts, and you feel him shake at the strength of his impending orgasm. You reach down his mouth at his neck, biting down hard, littering his neck with deep, aggressive bruises that you knew would last for days to come, if not weeks.

"You make me feel so good." he mutters, and you feel a sense of pride swell up inside of you. 

“Cum for me, love, please, I wanna see how good I make you feel.” his muscles tense under your grasp, arms flexing under the skin of his tattoos. 

“I’m so close, please don't stop, fuck, I love you so much.”

You love him too. It's all you could do, show him how much you loved him, how much he occupied your every thought and action. Everything depended on him, nothing existing without the knowledge that he was by your side, giving your life true, veritable meaning.

“So good for me, Matthew. Let go, feel it, let it consume you.” he frantically grinds against the mattress, chasing his high as you whisper dirty words into his ear, encouraging him.

“Oh god- just- fuckkk.” he finally cums with a cry of your name, hips bucking up against your strap as he heaves, sputtering and moaning uncontrollably

“So pretty when you cum, fuck, love it when you scream my name, love.” he goes limp as spurts of cum spill onto the sheets, his thighs tensing at the sheer intensity of his orgasm, eyes screwed shut with bliss.

Your hand releases his wrists, soothing raking your nails over his back, bringing him down slowly, not wanting to overwhelm him.

“You’re perfect, my gorgeous boy.” you coo, peppering kisses down his bare skin, licking at the harsh bite marks from earlier, blooming on his neck.

“Yeah, m’yours darling, all yours.” he mumbles, hazy from his climax, mind still foggy from the pure pleasure he had experienced. You slip out of him, watching how he clenched around the toy, as if trying to keep you inside of him.

“I love you.” you whisper, hugging him tightly from behind.

“I love you too, now get down here.” he violently tugs you down next to him, cupping your face in both hands, still trembling slightly. A genuine smile spreads onto his face as he kisses you gently, enjoying this tender moment of vulnerability between the two of you, wanting it to last forever. The two of you giggle into each other's mouths, giddy and relaxed, at peace.

“I love you.” he rolls his eyes playfully, grinning against your lips.

“You already said that.”

“I know.”

[allthecanadianpolitics]

In the winter of 2020, at the outset of the pandemic, the Immigrant Workers Centre where I’m an organizer brought together a group of migrant workers for a Zoom meeting. It was a snapshot of the precarious lives of those who make Canada’s economy run.  [...] These stories are not an exception but the norm for temporary foreign workers. These racialized workers generate great wealth for the corporate class inside countries like Canada because they’ve been made exploitable through a restrictive immigration regime designed to ensure they remain vulnerable, docile, deportable and disposable.  Capitalists tend not to be fundamentally anti-migrant but rather seek to control and manage migration for the needs of business. They envision migration to be a kind of kitchen faucet that can be turned on and off according to labour market fluctuations. [...] Corporations in critical sectors like logistics, warehouses and distribution rely on the same strategies in the Global South as they do in the Global North: when the industries cannot be offshored, they rely on a precarious workforce of migrants. 

Continue Reading

Tagging: @newsfromstolenland

[beguines]

The fact that the workerist definition of class has become normative (that class is treated as an identity, an essence, when it should be understood as a social and economic relation) is evinced by various critiques of the Marxist concept of the proletariat that argue, because they (mis)understand this concept according to a workerist definition, that the contradiction between labour and capital is no longer fundamental to the logic of capitalism. Take, for example, Maurizio Lazzarato's claim that the working class no longer constitutes a political class:

"While the number of workers in the world has increased considerably since the 1970s, they no longer make up a political class and never will again. The working class is no longer a class. [ . . . ] No longer based in the factory, the new class composition that has emerged over the years is made up of a multiplicity of situations of employment, non-employment, occasional employment, and greater or lesser poverty. It is dispersed, fragmented, and precarious, far from finding the means to constitute a political 'class' even if it represents the majority of the population."

The problem, here, is that Lazzarato presupposes that the working class only constitutes a class because of some prior organization and consciousness of this organization. The fact that workers are now dispersed throughout a "multiplicity of situations," and thus fragmented by neoliberal capitalism, is taken as evidence that workers are no longer a possible site of proletarian power. If the workerist presumption of a class in-itself that is automatically a class for-itself is correct, then this fragmentation indeed proves it is no longer a political class. We must wonder, though, why Lazzarato assumes that workers are "no longer based in the factory." Although it is true that the factory is not the only site in which workers reside, or that first world factories are no longer the norm, it is also true that hundreds of thousands of factories have been established in the global peripheries due to the export of capital. Hence, the majority of the world's working poor are based in factories, mines, and refineries. Lazzarato points out the contemporary economic situation of the working class and uses this as evidence as to why it is no longer a political class, failing to note that he has simply repeated the category mistake of workerism by conflating the economic with the political.

The Invisible Committee echoes Lazzarato's analysis by proclaiming, in To Our Friends, that we live "in a world where the organization of production is decentralized, fluid, and largely automated . . . To physically attack these flows, at any point, is therefore to politically attack the system as a whole. If the subject of the strike was the working class, the subject of the blockade is whoever. It's anyone at all, anyone who takes a stand against the existing world." This notion of a world of decentralized flows where the strategy of blockade and sabotage can create a generic revolutionary subject is compelling. After all, as noted above, the global economy has become complex: financialization, speculation, immaterial labour are prevalent. The traditional notion of the trade union worker, whose primary strategy of insurrection was linked to the general strike, does seem out of date in comparison to this conception of reality. In the previous chapter, however, we discussed how this notion of a decentralized capitalist system of flows and automation actually rests upon a re-materialization of labour that often disappears in the delirium of financialization and automation. If this decentralized and fluid world of production is to function as an organized global machine, it requires a massive and brutal industry of mining and refining—which largely takes place in the global peripheries—since the computer systems used to manage these flows are dependent upon silicon and other materials. The exploited labour of the working class remains the bedrock of capitalism's existence: capitalism needs workers; the system does not simply automate itself. Replacing this possible political subject, without whom the system could exist, with a vague but insurrectionary "whoever," is about as helpful as the Invisible Committee's political economy: the kind of utopianism that was behind the anti-globalization movementism that opened up 21st Century anti-capitalist struggle in the imperialist metropoles.

J. Moufawad-Paul, Politics in Command: A Taxonomy of Economism

[txttletale]

Hi! So, i'm going through Capital, great little obscure book sad that it never got any wide-reaching support (/s), have a couple questions so far though if you wouldn't mind giving some time to answer them:

What does Marx mean when he talks about 'unskilled labor' in relation to 'skilled labor'? Doesn't the vast majority of labor, even things like factory work, require training to do and especially to become good/efficient at? In the passage where he mentioned it he also mentions that (some, not all) unskilled labor, in sufficient quantities, can equal skilled labor but like. this doesn't really make any sense if its just, say, factory work vs idfk tailoring or something. So i'm a bit confused. Or is he talking about what i just mentioned where when you start out doing something you're unskilled but gradually become better at it as you do it more and more?

Who the hell is Ricardo?

factory work requires training to do, sure, but it's an order of magnitude less training than it took to learn to do those jobs before the introduction of the factories--on the level of, say, a few weeks (at absolute maximum) of training, done alongside actual work, before being fully able to work in a furniture factory, as opposed to the actual years of apprenticeship it historically took to become a carpenter. being unskilled doesn't mean that nobody can be good at a job, but it does mean, essentially, that you could grab any random person off the street and have them doing it within a week.

this distinction isn't there to be moralized about but to concretely analyze the different economic positions of these jobs--if your job is unskilled, you are going to be paid worse and have less secure employment, because you are easy to replace and the number of people looking to replace you are also competing against you to work for the lowest wages, driving your wages down. you're also paid less because the cost of reproducing your labour (the core determiner of the 'base price' of wages) is much lower. when an e.g. surgeon gets paid highly, their employer (whether the state or a capitalist) is essentially paying them more to retroactively pay for their extensive years of training.

this distinction is at its most clear when it comes to the concept of deskilling, which is crucial to marx's understanding of the industrial revolution -- with the introduction of machinery, years and years of learning how to do something by hand could be replaced with weeks of learning how to operate a machine. this deskilled huge sections of the economy and proletarianized the artisans and manufacturers who formerly did that work by making them dependent on the machines owned by factory workers. deskilling is the mechanism by which advancements in productive technology paradoxically make the jobs of those working in those fields more precarious and onerous even as the task itself becomes much easier, so it's pretty important to understand for an understanding of historical materialism.

david ricardo was a 19th century economist who advanced the ideas first laid forward by adam smith re: the labour theory of value and was the first to postulate (although without addressing the signficant political implications of this!) that real wages had an inverse relationship to real profits. marx draws heavily on his ideas but is also critical of them. capital is subtitled 'a critique of political economy' -- ricardo is a key figure in the field of political economy that he's critiquing.

[cherryrogers]

➳ ROOKIE || leon kennedy x f!reader

warnings: oral sex (m!receiving), reader is the chief’s daughter (not irons!!)

word count: 1.4k

a/n: i’ve had this idea for a while now and i might write more for chief’s daughter!reader if people like it ?? this is more self indulgent smut than anything so writing a lil smth else with this pairing might be fun idk… but yeah. i need him so bad bro

“Fuck, we shouldn’t…” Leon can’t even finish his sentence.

He’s looking down at you, at where you’re rubbing your cheek against his clothed thigh like a cat. Your eyes are large, glistening saucers, and your lips, Christ, your lips…

“I want to,” You breathe, lifting a hand to fiddle with his belt. He’s hard already. He has been from the moment you plopped yourself in his lap while he was working at his desk and told him to just ‘pretend you weren’t there’. It was a trap, of course. How could he ever ignore you playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, the sweet scent of your perfume, the curve of your neck, bare to him and begging for his lips to latch there…

“What about your dad?”

“He’s not here.”

“He’s close by.”

Your hands pull down his trousers, and you press the softest of kisses to the skin just above the waistband of his boxers. “Then you’ll just have to keep quiet,”You pause, looking up at him. God. “Can you do that for me, gorgeous?”

A shaky breath falls from his plump lips as your mouth grazes where he needs you. He couldn’t push you away now. He thinks it might kill him to do so.

Leon nods, his stomach churning with anticipation. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay.” You smile, gently pulling at his boxers. Sweet Leon — afraid of almost nothing, your father not included. It’s interesting, because he likes the rookie cop. Likes him a lot, actually.

Though maybe finding his daughter sank to her knees in front of him hidden away in the dark room might slightly decline the chief’s fondness of him.

Still, it’s fun like this. Stealing glances at him across the office while your dad tells you about his day. Telling your father you’ll wait for him to finish work in the reception hall and sneaking off to smother your boyfriend in affection. You still remember the first time you saw him. Fresh-faced and beautifully blond. Really, your father should’ve known taking on such a pretty face at the police department would distract you to no end. You simply had to have him.

And you do have him. Wrapped around your finger. Though, Leon could say the same. Maybe before him you wouldn’t even think to take such a risk, engaging in such obscene acts in the most precarious of places. But all Leon has to do is exist and you’re ready to drop to your knees in the blink of an eye.

Your thumb rubs circles on his left hipbone, your other hand dipping into his underwear and unsheathing his length. A lovely sigh escapes his lips as your hand envelopes his shaft.

Beads of pre-cum leak from the head of his cock; you squeeze your legs together at the sight, your tongue running across your bottom lip. Leaning forward, you press a kiss to his tip, painting your lips with the sticky substance.

“This for me?” You ask, meeting his eye as you lick your lips, relishing the salty taste.

His brows are furrowed, eyes heavy and watching your every move. His hips stutter as you rest your lips on his aching head, and he nods, dazed. “Always.”

You hum, satisfied with his answer, before tentatively running your tongue over him. Your hand gently pumps his cock, and Leon’s breathing only gets heavier, more laboured.

The more of him you take in your mouth, the easier it is for him to forget where he is. All he knows in this moment is you, your mouth, your teary eyes and gentle hands making a mess of him.

You push forward so his cock is nearing the back of your throat, hollowing your cheeks and coating him in saliva.

“Shit, you’re so good,” Leon says, pushing your hair away from your face. “You— fuck,” He cuts himself off, whimpering when he scrapes your throat. “You look so pretty.”

You look prettier, you want to say. But you can’t say much with his dick stuffed in your mouth.

Squeezing his hip affectionately, you bob your head back and forth, taking as much of him as you can now. His fingers wind through your hair, and you can’t help but moan around him when he tightens his grip. Perhaps he’s not the only one who likes his hair being pulled.

As you suck generously on his length, Leon’s shaky breaths begin to turn into desperate whines. Sounds you’d like to bottle up and keep forever. That only you get to hear, pleasure only you get to gift him.

Agonisingly slow, you remove your lips from him, a string of saliva still connecting your lips to the head of his cock. Your hand still strokes his length, but you let yourself instead look up and just admire your work for a moment. Leon’s head is resting against the wall, his Adam’s apple visible and just so kissable. His lips are parted and eyes shut, like he isn’t even here. Like he’s dreaming, like this kind of pleasure can’t possibly be real, like he can’t possibly feel as good as he does right now.

Of course, he notices the absence of your mouth on him, and he lifts his head after a few moments, looking down to see you staring right back at him. His head lulls to the side, eyeing your as if you’re his saving grace. You are.

“Need your mouth, pretty,” He says, his thumb running over your temple. “Please.”

If you had more time and less chance of getting caught, you’d maybe let him beg for a bit. Relish in his desperation, his sweet whimpers and flushed cheeks.

But his glistening baby blues crack you easily, and you feel it’d be a crime to deny him of anything right now, especially when he asks so nicely.

“Just wanted to look at you.” You kiss his inner thigh; it tenses under your lips.

Leon’s huffs a laugh, but the sound immediately gets caught in his throat when you give him what he wants. taking him into your warm mouth again. He’ll admit, it’s slightly exhilarating. Knowing anyone who wants to use the dark room could easily walk in on the scene he’s in now: the chief’s daughter on her knees with the rookie’s cock down her throat. It’s obscene and inappropriate and— God, you just feel so good.

These moments are rare, anyhow. Whether you’re busy with college assignments or he’s got a boatload of paperwork to complete, not to mention the issue is that your father — while a good man — is strict and does not tolerate any of his team being even a touch too friendly towards you. Leon’s affections, luckily, just flew under his radar. All in all, it’s difficult to find time to even see one another, nevermind, well… do this.

So he won’t say no when you whisk him away from his desk while no one’s looking, and press your lips to his as soon as you get him alone.

His length twitches on your tongue, and you know he’s close.

And well, he confirms this himself, pushing his hips forward and sighing heavily, “M’close, sweets. So fuckin’ close.”

His hand pulls your head back slightly by your hair, and you avert your eyes upward. They meet his own, stare piercing as your tongue circles his tip, as your swollen lips drag up and down him.

It doesn’t take long, admittedly, for Leon to come undone. Before you know it, a string of breathy expletives are falling from his lips, and warm seed shoots into your mouth. You guide him through his high, slowly moving your head back and forth as you milk him dry.

When he’s done, he pulls himself out of your mouth gently, swallowing thickly as you swallow his cum, wiping the back of your hand against your lips and humming at the taste in satisfaction.

Leon lifts you quickly from your knees, pulling you into a bruising kiss once you’re on your feet. He can taste himself on your tongue, and it drives him completely mad.

“You’re insane,” He says exasperatedly against your lips, haphazardly pulling his trousers back up. “Anyone could’ve walked right in.”

You can’t help but grin, tracing a finger over his jaw. “That didn’t seem to be a dire concern while you were coming down my throat, Kennedy.”

An endearing snort escapes his throat. “I think you’ll be the death of me long before your father is.”

You press an innocent peck to his burning cheek; you think you’ll keep taking your chances sneaking around with the pretty rookie cop for now.

[jelzorz]

Oh boy oh boy if you're taking ficlet requests, how about Opeli making sure Soren doesn't collapse of exhaustion while he's supervising rescue efforts and providing aid in the aftermath of Sol Regem's attack?

193.

It's all kind of a blur afterwards. Soren chalks it up to being exhausted from, well, everything, but it's not like there's been time to rest between it all anyway. There are too many wounded, too many dead, too few supplies to share between the too many refugees, and he has enough to deal with without the grief creeping along the edges of his mind, waiting for him to feel it and to process it on top of everything else. The physical labour is hard, but he's used to that. The emotional labour...

Well. It can wait.

So he heads out to the castle ruins with different groups of soldiers and volunteers to salvage what little they can. He moves rubble and bodies and supplies, helps pitch tents and herd children, tends to the wounded with the limited training he has. He's worn thin and he knows this. He hasn't slept for more than a couple of hours since the attack and he knows this too. He knows because Opeli keeps telling him to rest and Corvus keeps telling him to sleep and they're just as tired as he is, but neither of them stop, so why should he?

It's been a week. A little more he thinks, but he doesn't really know because the days have started to bleed to into each other and the rise and fall of the sun doesn't really mean anything in light of everything that's going on. He knows that the others had all come back the morning after the attack, and he knows Ezran had given the order to move everyone to the Banther Lodge after a couple of nights at the temples, but beyond that, all Soren knows is the ache in his muscles and the precarious uneven rhythm of his next step, and the one after, and the one after that.

He's sitting by the fire tonight. There's a pile of damaged armour beside him that he doesn't really know how to repair but the blacksmith didn't make it and the Banther Lodge works, but they're still sitting ducks out here. Damaged armour won't do them any favours. There's no room to lose anybody else. He's fixing the leather in a bracer when they find him, Corvus and Opeli, both tired, both weary, both obviously concerned.

"'Sup," greets Soren absently.

Corvus and Opeli glance at each other.

"We've been ordered to rest," says Corvus.

Soren snorts. "How's that going for you?"

Opeli twitches her lips. "I can't refuse an order from the king," she says drily, "but more importantly, neither can you."

Soren pauses in his work and raises an eyebrow.

"You need to rest," says Corvus, taking the bracer from him and shoving the pile of armour over with his foot. He takes a seat next to him without waiting for an invitation and Opeli does the same on his other side, already frowning at the bandage she'd placed over the cut on his forehead.

"You've split your stitches again," she says, her disapproval obvious.

"I'm fine," mutters Soren. He tries to snatch the bracer back but Corvus holds it purposefully out of reach.

"You need to rest," says Corvus again, tossing it back into the pile and kicking the whole stack of it further away. "We all do," he adds pointedly to Opeli, who wrinkles her nose petulantly and draws her knees to her chest.

"I'm not arguing," she mutters. "But whether or not we do relies on Soren, doesn't it?"

Soren stares at them both. Corvus actually smirks.

"We made a deal with Ezran," he says somewhat smugly. "I don't need a break—"

"Yes you do," snorts Opeli.

"But I wouldn't take one unless Opeli took one—"

"And I won't take one unless you do." Opeli gives him a look then, her usual stern-faced glare laced with something stubborn and a little sour, but something hopeful too: an opportunity to rest mandated by someone else that she won't feel guilty for taking. "So whether or not we get to take a break is up to you, really," she says.

Soren pauses. Then he scowls at them both. "That's a dirty trick."

"It's pretty fair actually," says Corvus, stretching out beside him. "You need to rest, Soren. If not for yourself, then for the people who care about you."

"And you do have people who care about you," says Opeli. "You must know that."

There's another pause. Corvus leans into him on one side and, hesitantly, Opeli does the same on the other, their warmth a comfort against the evening cold, their weight a ward against the feelings he isn't quite ready to feel.

He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them, it's dawn. The morning is quiet. The fire is out. Corvus has shifted so that his head rests on Soren's shoulder and Opeli has tucked herself under his arm in her sleep. The blanket draped over them is scratchy but warm.

Soren lets himself go back to sleep.

[lunastrophe]

BG3 Drow Lore 🕷️ Dhourn's Social Station

A couple of thoughts on Dhourn's past and his social station in drow society.

Dhourn is an example of a young drow wizard from a noble house. He certainly has a high opinion on his talents and equally high ambitions... but his status in a Lolth-sworn drow society is probably much more precarious than he might be willing to admit.

🕷️ Male - being a drow male, Dhourn has a lower social status than any drow female. He knows it and accepts it, which is why a female drow Tav can boss him around so easily.

Dhourn may be frustrated and tempted to stand up for himself, but despite of that, he strives to be polite while talking to a female drow. He apologies for not showing her proper respect, acknowledges her status, calls her "mistress" - he can even be convinced to hand over his memory shard.

Of course, it is not merely a matter of etiquette, but of pure survival. Dhourn clearly understands how easily a male drow can end up dead for crossing a female in a Lolth-sworn drow society.

🕷️ Third Son - Dhourn proudly introduces himself as "third son of House Ba'Tol", so he is clearly not only a member of a noble drow house, but also a son of the house matron - his social status is quite high for a male drow.

In a Lolth-sworn drow society, there is a custom that every matron mother sacrifices her third son to Lolth by ritually killing him soon after birth. It would mean that Dhourn is, in fact, the third living son of House Ba'Tol. Two of his elder brothers are still alive and one was sacrificed.

We know practically nothing about House Ba'Tol and its rank - but even if it is not a particularly large or powerful house, it is apparently wealthy enough to finance Dhourn's magical education.

🕷️ Taught To Know His Place - being a son of matron mother, Dhourn was probably raised like a typical male heir of a noble house: "they are not allowed to look at the faces of other drow, or speak unless spoken to or bidden. This treatment teaches them their subordinate place in drow society" (Drow of the Underdark, 2e).

🕷️ Searching For Power - second or third sons of noble drow houses are often sent to study magic (see the quote), but they may not be given the most prestigious positions after finishing their studies and returning home. Matron mothers often choose more experienced and powerful spellcasters to be their House wizards.

Because of that, it is not uncommon for second and third children of drow noble houses to "be drawn to places of power, seeing them as opportunities to escape their circumstances, build better lives, or simply form a new ruling elite and wield the power that eluded them elsewhere" (Drow of the Underdark, 3.5e)

That is why Dhourn is determined to find and claim the adamantine forge. He is ambitious ("Dhourn, Lord Archmage"), he sees himself as a wizard of considerable talent and, like many other drow, he craves power - the problem is, the best positions obtainable for a male in his House are already taken.

🕷️ Opportunist - Dhourn's career options are miserably limited. He can return home - where he will be most likely forced to accept a less prestigious position and to climb the ladder from there (...and Lolth knows how long it may take him to eliminate all competition, provided he survives the backstabbing game). He can also try his luck elsewhere, seeking glory "beholden to no house or hold". He chooses the latter...

...but...

...in scenario where Tav manages to deceive Dhourn - convincing him that all the male heirs of his house died and he will be welcomed back - he is practically happy to abandon his research and return home. In a blink of an eye, he loses interest in "chasing relics", claiming that such labour does not befit his station anymore: "Dhourn, first son of House Ba'Tol".

He is clearly neither a scholar, nor an adventurer at heart. He cares only about power and benefits that come with it.

For more of my drow lore ramblings, feel free to check my pinned post 🕷️

[ladymazzy]

Five years ago I would not have imagined feeling this ambivalent about Labour winning uk elections after so many years of tory hellishness, and yet here we are

Tories getting slapped to oblivion is great, but a huge chunk of the party that did it have proven themselves over and over again to be racist, transphobic, anti-palestinian, islamophobic, anti-immigration and pro dismantling public services

Rather than actively challenging any of the tories crackpot 'culture wars' talking points, Keith haphazardly leaned into them, giving them further legitimacy. Wittering on about 'stopping the boats' as if it's a normal, sensible proposition (that's centrists for you)

And of course the other reason that the tories got slapped to oblivion is because a huge portion of their voters are racist as hell and voted for reform

This one goes out to every lefty who still says 'it's not race, it's class'; Fuck You

Wake up and recognise that, yes the working classes are routinely fucked over by the state. But if you're from another marginalised community *on top of that*, we'll, the state has many creative ways to ensure that your very existence is precarious

This country has been *loudly* shifting to the far right for years. Black and Asian people *have been dying* because of racist polices on immigration, and structural inequalities that lead to worse outcomes for us.

Disabled people *have been dying* because of inhumane, contradictory, ableist policies that claim to be intended to 'give people the dignity of work' whilst stripping them of the means of working and/or attacking those who cannot work.

Trans people keep being reduced to a 'debate' talking point, riddled with wild nonsense from a platform lead by a random woman who happens to be very rich having written some kids' books. The lived realities of trans peoples lives routinely ignored in favour of supposed concerns for women's rights from people who increasingly seem to have nothing to say about the actual issues affecting all of us. Trans people are dying and we're expected to believe that the biggest threat comes from schools accepting kids for who they say they are, and people using a toilet

And the response to the genocide in Gaza - so hot on the heels of Russia's invasion of Ukraine - speaks volumes. Where the UK opened up the means for Ukranian refugees to seek sanctuary (which was, of course completely reliant on the humanity of the public and not an actual government thing because, you know; tories), the leading UK political parties have studiously ignored the mass murder and displacement of Palestinians by Israel, bombed Yemen for trying to support Gaza and provided military assistance for Israel in their genocidal campaign via base's in cyprus. And continued to arm israel

I've never seen so, so many horribly dismembered and maimed children as I have in the past 9 months. Absolutely horrific images of atrocities being meted out relentlessly day after day on a besieged population (who were betrayed by the British in 1948) who have been forced to film their own genocide because the west, by and large, continues to deny their very existence. And, once again, far-right Israelis have been given platforms to disseminate their lies in the same way Farage, Braverman, Meloni, Le Pen, Wilders, Modi Trump and others have been legitimised

No one should ever ask 'how was the Holocaust allowed to happen' because we live those conditions every day

Keith suspended Labour MPs for merely calling for a ceasefire back in November. How the party has treated Faiza Shaheen, Diane Abbott, Kate Osamor and others is beyond disgusting. The fact the Labour would rather tories - IDS himself no less - took the Chingford seat than let Shaheen win as an independent speaks volumes

To say we've got work to do is an understatement