#Belgian Shoes

[wellwornwornwell]

[thurstongrey]

[thebespokeprovocateur]

[newestcool]

Ann Demeulemeester s/s 1996 rtw Creative Director Ann Demeulemeester Model Esther de Jong Newest Cool

[maturetemptations]

Bulgin' Belgian Pierre-Yves Jeholet

[f1-birb]

mclaren LN4 ~ OP81

[digitalfashionmuseum]

Gold Leather Evening Shoes, ca. 1925, British.

By Lilley & Skinner.

Victoria and Albert Museum.

[killyridols]

eat my hat by charline tyberghein, 2022, oil & acrylic on canvas, 120 × 110 centimeters

[ln4bub]

PLEASE I JUST SAW 71. I NEED MIRROR SEX WITH OSCAR ASAP. Not even kidding that’s my new Roman Empire

A/N back on the oscar pastry hype train for national croissant day

Word Count - 2k

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Oscar's lips were hot and heavy against your own, moving with a precision that you never expected. His hands roamed your body, cupping and squeezing desperately as the two of you stumbled through your apartment door.

"I don't make a habit of hooking up on the first date you know," You say breathlessly against his lips. He hums, "No me neither, but I'm not complaining." He laughs, his lips travelling down your neck. It wasn't like you'd just met Oscar, the two of you spending plenty of time together in the paddock making content for McLaren. He'd convinced you to go on a date with him after the Belgian Grand Prix, knowing that if anything went wrong you'd have the whole summer break to get over it.

The date had been perfect, Oscar flirting with you more than you'd ever anticipated. Sure he flirted in the paddock but now he had you alone he had laid it on thick, holding eye contact with you whilst ate his dessert. That had been your final straw, watching the way his lips had wrapped around the spoon as he cleaned the ice cream off with his tongue.

The taste of ice cream now lingered on your own tongue following its battle with Oscar's. Oscar continued kissing his way down your neck, sucking lightly and leaving as many marks as he could. His lips slammed against yours once more, your hands tangling in his hair, grateful that he hadn't had a chance to cut it. You could feel the underlying anger from his DNF on Sunday, finally getting a chance to release the tension from your body.

"Where's your bedroom?" He asks, darkened eyes staring into your own. You smile, grabbing his hand and pulling him into your room. He matches your own smile, especially when you pull his face back to yours. His large hands rest on your back, trailing up to the zipper of your dress before pulling gently, "Turn around for me." He whispers against your lips.

You follow his instructions immediately, spinning around to allow him access to your back. He unzips your dress, kissing each inch of skin that's revealed as he removes the fabric from your body. He kisses over your lacy thong as he crouches to his knees, allowing the dress to fall to the floor and you to step out of it. "You've looked beautiful all night, but right now, you look drop dead gorgeous." He tells you, hands running up the backs of your legs.

He spins you back around and with a small push to your thighs encourages you to lay back on the bed. Oscar removes his belt and shoes as he admires you, waiting for his touch. He leans down and kisses the centre of your chest, lips moving to trace the mound of your left breast as his hand cups the right. Your back arches, allowing his hand to sneak behind and unclip your bra, pulling the fabric from your body.

Continuing to knead your tits, Oscar returns to his previous crouching position. He kisses your pussy over your thong, moaning at the faint taste of you through the lace. You spread your legs wider, allowing Oscar to fit in between. He removes his shirt quickly, adding to the mess you had already made of his hair. He lifts your right leg over his shoulder, giving himself more space to fit.

Oscar leans in, licking a stripe up the lace of your underwear before sucking at your clit through the fabric. You whimper at the feeling, threading your hands through his hair and digging your heels into his back. He groans into your pussy at the feeling of your stiletto putting pressure on the muscles of his back. His thumb replaces his tongue, rubbing your clit through the fabric and admiring the glisten of your juices as they begin to soak the lace.

"So fucking pretty, and this underwear is too pretty to take off. Love that you wore this for me, my pretty slut." Oscar whispers, causing your pussy to clench around nothing. His thick fingers pull the saturated thong to one side before sliding through your folds, collecting your juices. He brings his fingers to his mouth and his eyes flutter closed, "Could taste you forever." He mutters, your hand in his hair encouraging him to move closer to where you need him.

His tongue delves between your folds, licking every inch that he can. You moan out at the feeling, "Fuck Oscar!" You feel him smile against you, muttering something about saying his name. His lips encircle your clit, sucking gently as his tongue swirls in circles. He feels the way your legs tighten around his head, heel digging in harder, when he traces a figure eight over your clit. He smirks, an idea popping to his head.

Sliding a finger into your pussy, Oscar pulls away slightly, enjoying the sight of your arched back, the hand not in his hair kneading your breast. He lowers his face once more, tracing the number eight onto your clit, following it with a straight line. Your stomach clenches at the feeling, a loud moan tearing from your chest. "So good Osc- oh god, don't stop." You cry, tugging at his hair.

He continues the movement of his tongue, his finger curling against your walls. He feels the way your walls begin to clench around him, doubling his efforts so he can relish in the way your cum floods his tongue. It's when you notice that he's been tracing his driver number on your clit that you feel the waves of your orgasm washing over you, prolonged by his thick finger inside you, drawing more and more cum from your pussy.

Oscar pulls away from you when your legs begin twitching, leaving a gentle kiss on your pussy before reaching down to remove your heels. When your eyes flutter open you catch sight of just how wrecked Oscar looks, hair messy and eyes wild, lips glistening with your cum. You sit up, tongue sliding into his mouth and moaning at the taste of yourself on his tongue. You pull him onto the bed, crawling over his body to begin kissing down his chest.

Your hand pulls the zipper of his trousers down before reaching in and palming his length in his underwear. Oscar's head was thrown back against the headboard, eyes screwed shut at the feeling of your small hand over his hard cock. His head snaps forward as he feels the warmth of your mouth ghost over his crotch. It's then that he notices something at the foot of your bed, "Is that a mirror?" He asks, immediately cursing himself for thinking out loud as the feeling of your mouth suddenly disappears from his covered cock.

"Really?" You ask, "That's where your mind went right now?" You can't help but laugh as Oscar's cheeks flush red. "I'm sorry," He laughs in return, "You short-circuited my brain." You roll your eyes at his comment before smiling when he pulls you into his arms, straddling his cock. Oscar tilts his head to allow your lips access to his thick neck. Your lips trail his pulse point, nibbling lightly at the skin. When he moans at the feeling you continue, sucking small marks on his neck to match the ones he left on yours.

Your swirl your tongue gently over each mark, soothing the sting before licking a stripe up Oscar's neck to his ear. His body shudders and he whimpers at the feeling, his hand tangling in your hair and pulling with a harsh tug. "Turn around and face the mirror, right now." He whispers. You bite your lip at the dominant tone of his voice before complying, positioning yourself on your hands and knees at the foot of the bed.

You hear the soft thud of Oscar's remaining clothes hitting the floor before you see his figure behind you. The size of his body sends a shiver down your spine, your pussy clenching at the thought of how he could manhandle you. "Oh baby, so desperate for me that your little pussy is clenching already." Oscar chuckles condescendingly, smoothing his hands over your ass. He tugs your hair back once more, "Watch yourself in the mirror Y/N, want you to see how ruined my cock is gonna get you." You whimper, nodding at his words.

Oscar lines himself up behind you, gliding his cock through your folds, collecting your wetness. He groans softly at the glisten on his cock, biting his lip as he pushes the fat tip into your pussy. You moan at the stretch, mouth dropping open and eyelids fluttering as he continues to push inside you.

"God taking me so good, wish you could see my cock stretching you like this, you were made for me weren't you?" Oscar rambles, slowly thrusting as your walls stretch around him. "All yours Osc, feel so good." You whine, beginning to push yourself back onto his cock. He takes that as his sign to fuck you harder, pulling out before slamming himself back inside you.

You cry out his name, head trying to drop slightly but its stopped by his hand in your hair. You watch in the mirror, practically drooling at the sight of Oscar's eyes trained on the way his cock slides in and out of you. Your hands wrap around the bedframe at the foot of the bed, toes curling as Oscar hits your g-spot with every thrust. "Yeah, right there? That feels good doesn't it?" Oscar groans, hand leaving your hair to join his other hand on your ass. His thumbs spread your cheeks, giving himself a better view of the way you stretch around him.

A small glimmer of light catches your eye in the mirror, the lighting in your room causing the stream of spit leaving Oscar's mouth to glisten. You whimper as it lands on your asshole, sliding down to meet where the two of you are connected. The lewd wet sounds fill the room even more with the addition of Oscar's spit, his weight causing you to fall closer and closer to the mattress. Your thighs are practically stuck together as Oscar fucks into you, the slapping of skin filling the room. Oscar's arm wraps around your front, his forearm practically choking you as he pulls you up slightly, your back arching and pressing your ass against him.

He groans at the way your ass ripples with each thrust, leaning as close to your ear as possible. "You close baby?" He asks, "I can feel your pussy getting tighter, tell me you're close." He practically begs. You nod with a moan, "So fucking close Oscar, please don't stop, so good, so fucking good." You moan, whining with each word as he continues to hit the perfect angle inside you. "Yeah?" Oscar moans, "Want you to cum, want you to show me how good I feel inside you, soak me with your cum baby, come on." He rambles in your ear, voice breathy and desperate as his own orgasm approaches.

His plea is all you need to tumble over the edge, your walls milking his cock as he continues to thrust as best as he can. His rhythm stutters, hips slamming harder against yours as he chases his orgasm. "Fuck baby, that's it. Feel so good, so tight." He whines, his stomach tightening with his approaching orgasm. "Want you to cum inside me Osc, please, fill me up." You moan, white-knuckling the bed frame as you approach the edge of overstimulation. Your whiny request sends Oscar flying towards his orgasm, ropes of cum filling your tight pussy as he shallowly thrusts.

His deep grunts fill your ears as he fills you, warm breath hitting your back. He stills inside you, lifting himself on shaky arms before pulling out. Oscar rolls to the side, pulling you on to his side with one arm, kissing your forehead as your sweaty skin sticks together.

"Totally should've asked you out sooner." He mutters breathlessly. You laugh, kissing his chest softly. "Rookie mistake." You whisper, making Oscar smile before hugging you tighter to his body.

[screamingviridianforest]

Dog hybrid Soap x Cat hybrid Ghost x Rabbit(bunny) hybrid reader

Lil bit of angst, not anything serious

By time Soap and Ghost get together is when they finally meet you. You're a sweet little recruit, smarter than smart. You pick up new skills scarily fast - being a belgian hare.

They've claimed you when they first saw you, though you have no idea. Ghost makes sure you get easier missions, his way of protecting you. He also always makes sure one of the 141 will be with you on said mission. Soap trains you, though he trains most recruits, but he's far more attentive to you. He takes time to break down more bomb disarming methods and makes sure you have perfect form when fighting.

It really shouldn't have been a surprise when you got sent on your first dangerous mission. It was supposed to be easy, just an intel run. The danger was the fact that it was a bomb factory. You were chosen because of your very alert temperment, you would be able to hear any hostiles coming.

You weren't supposed to be in the main fight, being a recruit and all, you were supposed to be a guide. Someone to make sure they didn't run into any hostiles in the way.

But of course everything went wrong.

They only saw you being wheeled into medical, unconscious. There was blood all over you, yours and others. You had rushed into the fray to protect a teammate and caught a stray bullet.

Well, it ricocheted off of you and into the nearby storage of bombs.

Everyone just barely made it out. Everyone covered in burns.

In the end, they ended up visiting your room while you were asleep more than anyone did while you were awake. You were ok, mostly minor burns from someone else protecting you. A broken bone or two.

Ghost immediately goes into overdrive after you recover, putting in way more effort to make sure you don't get hurt like that again.

Soap puts in more time training you, being harsher with it. Can't you see they're just worried?

It isn't until they find you passed out on the couch in the rec room, the one for everyone, not the 141 one, that they take a moment. You were fast asleep, chin tucked against your chest and ears folded down out of the way.

You looked so small.

So, Ghost gently lifts you up into his arms as Soap gently rearranges your limbs into a more comfortable position. Ghost can't stop the soft purr that rumbles forth and it just makes you curl into him more.

Once they get you to your room, they take a moment. Soap tucked you in real tight, and Ghost makes sure you have everything you'll need for tomorrow(phone plugged in, shoes by the edge of your bed, clothes set out).

Sure, you'll wake up tomorrow, confused, but ironically, you'll miss the soft purr that goes by your door with footsteps.

[percervall]

sometimes you break so beautiful

Pairing: Carlos Sainz jr x fem!reader Words: 1800 Warnings: Ferrari being Ferrari, smut, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, light choking, so many alliterations

In which Carlos just wants to forget The Belgian Grand Prix

---

The moment you see the replay of the collision between your boyfriend and Oscar, you know it’s a done race. You hear his engineer confirm the damage and the effect of it on the aerodynamics of the car and your heart sinks. This should have been his race, starting fifth but yet again you feel the quiet resignation settle in your bones when you realise Ferrari are miles away from giving these boys the car they deserve. It’s a mystery to you why they keep Carlos out on the track as he continues to slip further down, an anger blazing through you at the torture they’re subjecting him to, until they finally decide to retire the car on lap 25. All you can do is watch him climb out of his Ferrari, your hands clenched in front of your chest. You reach out a hand, brushing against his arm as he walks past you. Carlos gives your hand a squeeze without meeting your eyes, but he’s telling you all you need to know about how he’s feeling. During the remaining 19 or so laps you keep an eye on him as he shuts the world out with the Ferrari headphones and quickly debriefs his engineer in rapid Italian. He won’t show his emotions, not with all the cameras around, but you can tell by the way his jaw is set and his posture that he is suffering, quietly, waiting until he’s away from prying eyes to fall apart.

In the end, him falling apart doesn’t happen until you’re back in the hotel. Sometimes the post-race engagements and responsibilities are more exhausting than the race itself, especially with all the social media content nowadays. Charles shoots you a worried glance as the three of you exit the lift.

“I’ve got him,” you whisper, giving him a kiss on the cheek as you turn left to head to your room. Carlos has already unlocked the door to your shared hotel room and has finally found some reprieve from the public. When you shut the door behind you, you find him sat on one of the chairs, head in his hands. Taking off your coat and shoes, you make your way over to him, pulling him against you. With a shuddering breath, Carlos wraps his arms around your waist as he burrows his face against your stomach. You swallow down your own feelings about this season and run your fingers through his hair. Carlos’ shoulders shake with silent sobs as his tears soak through your shirt. This is more than just one bad race, more than a less than ideal car; This is months of fighting to be heard by the engineers, of dealing with contract uncertainties, of playing second fiddle, of being pushed past his breaking point.

“What do you need?” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Help me forget.. Please, I just need to stop thinking,” comes his answer as he looks up at you, those big brown eyes glimmering with unshed tears, voice breaking. You rest your palms against his cheeks, brushing away the tears with your thumb, before leaning forward and kissing him softly.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, echoing your promise to Charles, your heart breaking into pieces when his eyes fill with equal parts hope and heartache. Carlos allows you to pull him to his feet and move him towards the bathroom. While you turn on the shower, Carlos begins to undress. As soon as his shirt drops to the floor, he’s on you, still wearing his trousers as needy fingers find their way under your shirt, pulling it up and over. You’re quick to raise your arms, allowing him to undress you as you do the same for him in return. Taking his hand, you pull him under the spray of the shower, hissing as the hot water hits your skin. Carlos wraps his arms around your waist, pressing himself against your back as he buries his face in your neck. Turning around in his arms, you kiss him, pouring all the love you have for him into that kiss. Carlos sighs against your lips, some of the tension easing out of his tensed muscles. He makes this pained noise in the back of his throat as he moves you back until you end up against the wall. He breaks the kiss and the look he gives you steals the breath from your lungs. His lips are parted, cheeks flushing already with both the heat from the shower and arousal, but his eyes betray just how conflicted he’s feeling; there’s a mixture of trepidation and need. 

“I can take it, let me carry it,” you soothe him, fingers smoothing out the lines on his face. Yet another wall seems to crumble down as he dives in for another kiss. His hand rests against your jaw as the other grips your hip. You can tell he’s holding back –there’s a fury simmering in his body now that the edge of sadness has dissipated. 

“I need you to use me,” you whisper, tugging on his hair to break the kiss. He lets out the most beautiful moan at the pain and the last shred of self control snaps. Carlos tightens his grip on your hip, fingers digging into your skin as he pins you in place with his own body, trapping his now hard cock between the two of you. You can feel him throb against your stomach and it has you clenching in anticipation. Usually Carlos is a tender lover, always making sure he makes you feel so, so good. But when he gets like this –when there’s pent up frustration simmering just below the surface, he becomes the most greedy and just takes and takes and takes. 

His lips find the pulsepoint behind your ear, sucking a bruise onto your skin. You hiss at the sting, tilting your head to grant him better access. Carlos hums and continues his assault, leaving hickeys and bites across your clavicle and down to the swells of your breasts. His hips thrust up as you whimper when his teeth graze over your collarbone. He slides the hand holding your hip down, parting your folds to find you already wet for him. 

“Always ready for me, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your skin and all you can manage to reply is a whispered yes as he slides the tip of his finger inside of you. The intrusion has you panting, swallowing around a moan as he slowly fucks you, thumb lightly pressed against your clit. It’s enough to have you throbbing but not enough to alleviate the ache.

“Please..” you whisper, desperation already setting in. You can feel him smirk against your skin as he rubs fast circles against your clit. This is not about your pleasure, this is purely him strumming your body in preparation for what he has in store for you. The steam of the shower that’s still running makes it hard to think as lust clouds your brain the way the vapour steams up the shower screen and mirror. 

“That’s it, mi vida… Let go for me,” Carlos whispers in your ear and something just snaps as you fall over the edge.

Heart still hammering against your chest, you have become putty in his hands as Carlos turns you around. The cold tile makes for a welcome contrast against your heated skin, fingers desperate to find purchase against their wet surface. 

“Joder,” you hear him whisper, hands roughly kneading your cheeks. Your eyes flutter closed as you push back against him.

“Need-.. Please.. Need it..” you mumble, arching your back even more. Realistically you know this will hurt, your body not ready to accommodate his size –not like this at least– but at this point you no longer care it will ache come morning. You will gladly hurt for this stunning man, who holds both unbridled joy and brooding darkness so beautifully it makes you dizzy with how much you love him, if it means he won’t –not for a few hours at least. The stretch of him slowly entering you has you keening and you throb around him as Carlos gives you a moment to adjust.

“Fuck, so tight,” he rasps, lips against the shell of your ear. You can only nod, holding yourself up with one arm as the other comes to rest on the hand still holding your hip. Giving his wrist a squeeze you wordlessly let him know it’s okay, that you won’t break. You swear you can almost hear him grit his teeth, his grip on your body tightening as he fucks into you; long strokes at first until your body goes pliant and he does as you told him: he uses your body to fuck all his frustration out of his system. The angle allows Carlos to brush against that spot inside of you with the head of his cock, setting your body alight with pleasure. He gives you none of the usual praise, just an unrelenting pace as one of his hands wraps around your throat and pulls you flush against him. The weight of his hand is enough to have you clenching around him, your second orgasm approaching rapidly. Carlos bites down on where your shoulder meets your neck, his hips stuttering as he comes with a muffled groan. It’s enough to send you flying as well, a sob tearing itself from your throat as you come so hard, your vision blurs. 

Carlos removes his hand from your throat, wrapping the arm around your chest instead as he holds you up. You let out a whimper as Carlos pulls out, allowing him to turn you back to face him and move you back under the spray of the water. As you’re coming down from your high, Carlos takes care of you, gently cleans both of you before shutting the shower off. After drying yourself, you wrap the towel around your body, twisting your still damp hair up into a messy bun. He takes your hand and both of you move to the bed, exhaustion hitting you hard. You sigh as your body relaxes into the soft sheets, Carlos’ body curling around yours as he presses himself against your back. You turn in his arms, brushing wet strands of his hair back as you look at him.

“Thank you, amor,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against your forehead. 

“I love you,” you murmur back, snuggling further into your boyfriend. You know he will be apologetic in the morning when he takes stock of the bruises decorating your skin, but you will gladly become a canvas for him to process his grief and anger knowing he would offer you the same in return.

Wrote this pretty much in one sitting and it's barely edited. After struggling to write anything for the past month, this just poured out of me. Guess I need to literally suffer for my art, thanks Ferrari.

This fic existing is thanks to @curiousthyme and @moneyymaseyy, there's no one I'd rather watch F1 (suffer through Ferrari) with

Please feel free to let me know what you think, your comments, tags and likes means the absolute world to me

[ac3may]

"One of us"

(Lando Norris x Fem!Reader)

F1 Requests = Open

It's a little later than I'd like it but here's a little Christmas something, something to kick off my F1 content.

Also first proper SMAU, how'd I do??

Description: "Reader joins the Norris family for their Christmas celebrations and realises just how much they mean to her through a few short days"

Masterlist

Who I Write For

Words: 1.8k

UrUsername has posted a story

“UNCLE LALA!”

A bright smile spreads across your boyfriend's face as he catches the small bundle of energy catapulting herself toward him. Mila’s legs fly behind her as he spins and she relishes in her uncle's attention. 

Smiling softly at the sight, the Christmas lights decorating his parent's country home glisten in the background. You begin unloading your suitcases from the car as tiny footsteps and little giggles disappear across the sprawling gravel driveway.

Soon enough Lando’s arms sneak around your waist, halting any attempt at movement. “I can do that, Lovey.” His lips pepper kisses to your hairline as he inches you aside gently.

“I can help too,” you insist, stubborn words contrasting your actions as you grin at the roll of eyes and scoff he returns. 

“You know that’s not how this works baby.” 

Smirking a little to yourself you resign yourself to watching happily. The Christmas jumper spread taught across his back, muscles rippling through the knitwear as he works. Catching his eye with a wink when he turns.

When you pull yourself from focusing on the handsome man you begin working in tandem, unloading his packed SUV of presents and suitcases for your week ahead.

UrUsername posted on instagram

UrUsername: Ski trip? Completed it✔️ Bring on Norris family xmas '24

The home that greets you is warm, the air scented with a glorious mix of gingerbread and cinnamon. You manage a single step through the front door before Cisca immediately fusses over you.

Exchanging hugs, collecting coats and ignoring her son entirely. Which has you giggling as he huffs and grumbles behind you. 

Further down the hallway Adam and Oli have gathered, baby Athena resting peacefully in her grandfather's arms. They let out much fuller laughs at your boy as the Belgian woman continues to dot on you.

Your hands emptied and you're ushered towards her daughters (and daughter-in-law), all watching on in amusement, hot drinks in hand.

Lando has lugged both of your large suitcases inside and is midway kicking off his shoes when his mother finally turns to him. A sassy remark falls from his lips as he embraces her tightly, a loving grin on his lips as he catches your gaze over her shoulder. 

'I love you,' your lips form the words silently as you mouth your affections, and he returns the silent words as you're both swept in different directions. The Norris women surround you and drag you further into the open-plan kitchen, pressing a warm mug into your hold, desperate to hear all about the ski trip you had recently returned from. Meanwhile, Mila hurricanes into the entryway gaining the full focus of the Norris men. Cisca stands back, admiring her family finally gathered together under one roof.

lando.jpg posted on instagram

lando.jpg: 🦌☃️❤️

After a big family breakfast and a long thirty-minute attempt at getting the entire family out the door, you were squished in Lando’s backseat between his sisters. You had given up your passenger princess privileges so Adam could sit up front with his son. Who had adamantly refused to give up the control of driving to ride in his parent's backseat. The rest of the Norris clan follows behind you in Savannah’s car. 

In following family tradition you’d all decided to spend Christmas Eve in the local town. You were beyond excited to see the small countryside town your boyfriend had been raised in. 

Festivities were in full swing when you arrived. You were quickly informed that it was the last day of the holiday market, which annually caused the whole community to gather and have a collective celebration. With Lando’s hand wrapped warmly around yours, you gazed around in awe. 

Music was playing from speakers throughout the small village of stands, all set up by local businesses. There was even a small petting zoo and stable where families gathered for a chance to meet donkeys, sheep, goats, chickens, and even reindeer.

What took your breath away though was the big, bushy, towering tree standing in the centre of the town square, draped in lights and baubles, a gold glowing star shining on top.

“Woah.”

You breathe the word almost silently, catching Lando’s attention his head turns to eye you adoringly. “Pretty, huh?” He offers, giving a squeeze to your hand.

You nod in return, childlike glee shining in your eyes as you peer up at him. Giggles escape as he enjoys your joy, tugging lightly to pull you with him into the maze of festive joy in front of you.

savnorris reposted UrUsername's story

The sun begins to dip beyond the horizon as the family gathers together, you among them. Empty hot chocolate cups littering the table in front of you. Mila perches on your lap, both tiny hands wrapped protectively around the carrot she had spent seven minutes meticulously picking. She had spent the whole time excitedly bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes wide, as she anticipated providing the treat for Santa’s reindeer that evening. 

Despite the light tickles you leave up and down the sides of the tiring girl in your hold your focus is towards the curly-haired boy across from you. His attention is captured by the youngest Norris, little giggles escaping her as he pulls faces and blows raspberries against her rosy cheeks.

Moments later collective cheering distracts you and all heads turn towards the stage which has stood empty all day. The town band now stand upon it, jingle bells sounding as they begin to play. Folk around you start to dance and sing away. A bright smile beams across your face and the little girl in your arms perks up as well, jumping to her feet in front of you. 

“Tee! Tee! Dance with me!” With her calling out for her aunts you direct your attention to the stage, but only for several seconds before an insistent hand is tugging at yours. “Tee! Tee! Dance!” 

You look around for Flo or Cisca before your eyes meet back with the small ones honed on you, “… me?” You ask the girl, pointing at yourself, confusion laced in your tone. 

“Duh!” You see your boyfriend in her at her sassy remark, feeling another impatient tug on your fingers. Scrambling over your shock you scramble to your feet, taking both tiny hands in your own as you jump, twirl, giggle and sing with the two-year-old.

Collapsing heavily onto the sofa beside you Lando grumbles, dramatically clutching at his stomach.

“I. Am. Stuffed.” He declares, shuffling around to get comfortable before draping his limbs around you lazily. 

You laugh at the boy as he clutches to you like a child, still wiggling into the perfect position. He continues to groan in frustration before huffing and forcing your hand upon his head. “Scratch.” He demands.

Internally you can’t help but be amused and a little enamoured with his sass, loving his clingy moods and the fact he’s so comfortable with you in front of his family.

But outwardly you quirk an eyebrow, Lando puffs his lips into a pout giving you big puppy eyes as he adds a soft, “please,” to his sentence.

A little laugh escapes you and you concede easily to his wishes, watching the immediate way his face relaxes. 

The TV plays low in the background as the family slowly filters through to join you lounging in the living room. Mila plays with a collection of toy cars on a mat in the middle of the carpet as you speak in soft tones with Flo and Oli as their brother dozes in your lap.

The matriarch of the family is the last to enter through the door of her living room, arms stacked high with gifts.

Adam jumps from the armchair he’d claimed, quick to help his wife with the wobbling pile. She smiles gratefully and leaves again only to reappear moments later with two boxes and a second stack.

Hearing the crinkle of paper your boyfriend's eyes flutter open and his head perks up, swivelling to face his parents as they distribute packages to the occupants around the room.

“Christmas Eve packages,” Lando informs you, “my parents have done them ever since we were kids, usually something matching just to ‘get us in the spirit’,” his explanation finishes with finger quotations, his reaction speed only barely quick enough to catch the present launched towards his face in the process. 

“And this one’s for you darling,” Cisca’s motherly tone reaches you and her warm eyes meet yours. She hands the gift to you a loving smile on her face, one you recognise all too well from the way you saw it mirrored on Lando’s daily. Watching the shy smile that plays on your lips as you flip the parcel over in your hands Lando can’t help but press a kiss to your cheek. 

“You’re one of us now baby,” he grins, noticing the surprise tracing your features. His grin morphs into a smirk as a thought flicks through his head.

Linking your fingers together he raises them up. Lips brushing against your ring finger, “only thing left now is for me to put a ring on it.”

UrUsername posted on instagram

UrUsername: holiday dumps do it better🎄✨

“Hey, bubs?”

Lando hums in response, snuggling his nose further into your neck, as if he could get any closer. His position already left half your body smothered by him. Carding your fingers rhythmically through his dark hair you continue, your voice gentle, unwilling to break the peaceful bubble you’d created within his childhood bedroom. 

“Thank you.”

His head pulls back from you, yours tilting down to meet his eyes. Lando rolls off of you but still manages to create no distance as he props himself on his side. “What for Lovey?”

Your eyes roam down his, now bare, chest to spy his plaid pyjama trousers as you are flooded with the recollection of your evening. Of how only hours before you had watched him stubbornly argue against the matching nightwear until you batted your eyes at him. Of the teasing he’d received for the quick dissolve of his resolve. Of Mila’s excitement as she placed her carefully selected carrot beside the cookies you’d helped her bake. Of Lando’s boyish grin as you dusted the crumbs of said cookies from his chin several hours later. Of the giggles shared over glasses of mulled wine and tipsy twister once the young ones were sound asleep. 

“For everything,” you eventually respond, “for inviting me to spend the holidays with you, for your family accepting me, for you loving me, for everything.” The twinkle of love in your eye shines brightly, and is returned in his as he sees the emotion take hold of you.

“You never need to thank me for loving you, Y/N L/N. It’s an honour in itself for you to allow me the pleasure of loving you. And my family agree.” His palm raises to cup against your cheek, fingers tucking a few rogue strands of hair behind your ear as his lips tenderly meet yours, plushy and perfect.

(All pictures taken from Pinterest and edited for story purposes and fan consumption)

[dimonds456-art]

Chapter 2 of the Runaway Ford AU is up! Also below the cut for you guys who don't have an Ao3

Seagulls screeched nearby, and voices could be heard muttering to each other from every direction. It was a beautiful day to get out and enjoy some sunlight, but Ford had other priorities. 

Taking in a breath of fresh air, Ford paused. He'd only just made it outside the pawn shop, stopping to take in the bright midday sun and the clear blue sky. 

First up, he had to find Stan. Then, they were gonna run off together. After that? They'd go live on the Stan'O'War, probably. It couldn't float yet, but they could fix that easy-peasy.

The issue was trying to find Stan, though. Ford's first thought was the Stan'O'War, which was down by the beach, but there was a chance that Stan was waiting somewhere closer, and if Ford left now, he'd miss him. Then, he'd double back, and Stan would go to the boat, and they'd just keep passing each other while never actually finding each other, and that sounded like a mess waiting to happen. Best to be methodical about it.

He knelt down, unzipping his backpack to pull out his notebook and a pen; his sharpie- old reliable once again. Unfortunately, he knew first-hand that it would bleed through the pages, so he set it aside for now. Instead, he pulled out a smaller ballpoint pen. 

Quickly zipping his bag back up and slinging it over his shoulder, he sprinted off a little down the road. If his parents found his note too fast, they'd be able to catch him before he made any progress on finding Stan, and if that happened, he probably wouldn't be allowed out for the rest of the summer- a summer which just started. There was so much sun ahead of them, he couldn't get cooped up too fast this time. 

Once he was a couple buildings away, he ducked into a small alley and opened his notebook again. He started writing down as many places as he could think of, before going back and starring the ones he thought were most likely.

List of places Stanley could be: - Somewhere around Pines Pawns *! - Hot Belgian Waffles - The Stan'O'War *! - The park - The boardwalk - That once ice cream store I can never remember the name of *!

Ford read it over again, trying to think of more. There was also a chance he was in places Ford liked to go, like the library, but he'd check those later. 

Now, where to start? Ford was willing to bet his allowance that Stanley was on the Stan'O'War, but in case he wasn't, Ford didn't want to keep running around in circles. So, starting at the closest place and going from there made the most sense. 

Back to Pines Pawns it was. Hopefully they hadn't found the note yet. 

Ford stood in front of his previous residence of not even a half an hour ago, tapping his pen against his chin. 

Nope. Still looked the same as it ever did. 

The building was shorter than the other ones around it, which was bound to draw eyes, so his father had basically taken advantage of it. He'd put up all kinds of eye-catching paraphernalia around the place, like pointing hands and bright colors, to advertise the shop. The dirtied window showcased watches, a chandelier, a trophy, and stuff of a similar caliber. Up above was a giant chess piece as suggested by Ma, since it was weird- making it stand out. No one had giant pawns on top of their roofs.

The sidewalk was covered in tiny flecks of sand and dirt and trash, the streetlight was just off-center enough to drive Stanford nuts, and the silver bin they kept in the alley looked full. Same as it ever was. 

After taking a moment to just drink it in, Ford darted off to the left-side alley. There wasn't much down there, just brick walls and trash. And no Stanley. 

Same with the right side. Ford crossed his arms, scrutinizing the alley as best as he could. Candy wrappers crunched under his shoe as he tapped his foot. See, he wasn't an expert by any means, so trying to figure out what was a clue and what wasn't was hard. Like, he didn't know what to look for. Did that mean there were no clues, or they were just going over Ford's head? 

A small gust of wind blew by, rustling the half-crumpled cardboard sticking out of the trashcan. It didn't blow out, but it was enough to make Ford realize that this was probably a dead end. 

He crossed off Pines Pawns. 

The bell rang as Ford stepped into the restaurant. The next-door business, Hot Belgian Waffles, was always a favorite of Stanley's when they could afford to eat there. Their pancakes were fluffy as a cloud, butter smooth and melt-y, and their syrup was sweet. Of course, the best meal was the waffles, which were just cooked enough to be crunchy on the outside and soft and fluffy on the inside. Add some strawberries on top with some butter and syrup and you were golden. 

Ford took a couple steps inside, trying not to get too swept up by the smells. This was probably a bad time to realize he hadn't eaten anything before leaving the house. The aroma was positively divine. 

While he loitered by the front door, most of the patrons continued eating and chatting. However, he did see a few glance his way, who were quick to squint at him disapprovingly. He looked down at the floor. More wooden flooring. Cozy.

A waitress spotted him. She was a taller woman, with dark curls circling her round face. She took care of the couple she was serving, jotting something down, before walking up to Ford. She smiled widely, just enough to look friendly but not enough to look genuine.

"Well now, if it isn't one of the Pines Pawns boys!" she greeted, voice syrupy sweet. "Just you today, sugar?"

"Oh, um, I'm not gonna order," Ford told her somewhat sheepishly, pretending he didn't see her smile falter. "I'm looking for my brother." 

"The other one? Can't say I've seen him today." She placed her hands on her hips. "Say, what's with the outfit? You playing handyman or somethin'?"

"Oh," Ford looked down at himself, realizing how out-of-place he looked now with his belt, backpack, and bindle. "No, I'm… treasure hunting." He shrugged, making eye contact and smiling and remaining calm and not sweating. "You never know what you'll need for that." 

The waitress looked like the impossible cross between disappointed and overjoyed to hear that. "I see. Well, if he comes around, I'll put in a good word for you."

Ford visibly relaxed. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Don't mention it. Though, per company policy, I am going to hafta ask you to stop loitering in the doorway." 

"Right. Goodbye, miss!"

"Good luck!" She waved him out as he reached up to the door handle and pulled. It was heavier than the Pines Pawns door- must be made of better materials. Either that or the gold handle really was gold. 

As Ford stepped back out, he crossed Hot Belgian Waffles off the list.

If his intuition was right, his next stop should be his last. 

Ford lifted up the tarp, stepping inside the rickety old boat with a smile. "Stanley! I…" he trailed off, face falling as he took in the empty expanse. "...found you." 

Nothing. The box of nails they forgot to bring home were still there, their footprints were untouched aside from the inarguable influence of gravity, and nothing looked more broken than it had yesterday. 

Ford pushed the tarp back all the way, slowly stepping inside through the broken side of the ship. Each noise he made didn't echo so much as it was immediately thrown back at him, amplifying it. It made the silence even thicker. 

"Stanley…?" Ford called out tentatively. "You in here?"

The crashing of the waves nearby served as his only answer.

Stepping back out, his eyes took a second to adjust to the light. Maybe he fell asleep on the deck? The stairs weren't usable inside yet, making it hard to get up there, but the boys had noticed that some of the planks on the side stuck out at just the right angles to form a makeshift ladder. Ford set his bindle down, taking each step carefully as he scaled the side of the craft. 

Up on top now, he had a much better view of the beach. No one was here, which wasn't surprising for this time of year, but it was still eerie. Ford found himself tensing his shoulders as he glanced around. 

Okay, logic. If Stanley wasn't at the boat, then he could feasibly be anywhere. Or, maybe he had been staying at the boat, got bored, and wandered off? That sounded like a Stanley thing to do. Or maybe he went to play in the ocean and got dragged out by the undercurrent again? Or maybe the Jersey Devil found him? 

The more he stood there and thought about where his brother might be, the more Ford found himself getting lost in worry. He gripped the straps of his backpack tighter, scanning again, slower this time, to see if he could see any trace of his brother along the shore. 

Waves lapped at the sand lazily, seagulls screeched. Cars drove by not too far away. The long, thin grasses further up the beach rustled against each other in the wind. But no loud whooping or sounds of destruction. 

"Okay, okay, this is okay," Stanford said to himself. "He's probably around here somewhere. He probably… went to go get ice cream. Yeah." That was reassuring! And delicious. 

His body didn't stop shaking. 

He groaned, throwing his head back. "When I find Stanley, I'm throwing him into the ocean myself," he grumbled.

Taking a deep breath, Ford walked over to the side of the boat where he'd left his bindle and jumped back down. He landed softly in the sand, having done this a couple of times now. It did send a shock up his joints, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. 

"Okay, Stanford, just think." He slung the little stick-bag over his shoulder again and began to pace around the boat. "If he wanted to meet you here, he would NOT be here." He threw his free hand out for emphasis. "He's too restless for that. So the best choice would be to stay and wait for him. But…" he trailed off, glancing down the beach. "...if he's not here, then you're wasting more time." 

He hummed, trying to calm the storm brewing in his mind. "Maybe…" 

Ford gasped, then smacked himself in the head. Duh!

There was one other place on the beach Stanley might be. Stanford quickly took off, heading north.

Let it be known that Stanford Pines did not give up easily. Heck, he still had a bunch of other places to be searching! But his earlier hypothesis of the two of them walking circles around each other was starting to become more clear. Which meant, one of them had to stand still and wait for the other to catch up. And since Stanley could not, for the life of him, stand still, it looked like Ford was going to be the one to do that.

He sat forlornly on his seat, gazing off into the waves. It was going on five hours since he started searching, and while adults would tell him that that wasn't very long at all, to Ford, it felt like he'd been going all day. Paired with the worry building in his guts that was slowly rising towards his chest, he was feeling exhausted. 

He'd already checked the park, and the boardwalk (he'd walked up and down it three times), and he'd made sure to find that ice cream place and ask about Stanley there. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. No one had seen him, no one had heard him, no one had anything to tell! 

There were too many variables and not enough information. He could spend the entire day running around in circles and that would solve nothing. He just had to trust that Stanley had come looking for Ford now, too, and they were doing circles. They were both just being silly and overreacting. It was fine. He was fine. They'd see each other by nightfall, since Stanley would go back to the Stan'O'War to camp out for the night, right? Yeah, yeah that was it. 

But right now, Ford couldn't find it in him to move. Everything was becoming too much. 

His feet dug into the sand under him, and he lightly pushed himself back and forth in a slow swaying motion. His swing made low creaking sounds as he did. 

Stanley's swing was silent. 

Sunset was still about two hours away this time of year, so he had time to just… breathe. Calm down, refocus. Stanley was on his way.

"Oh, and now what do we see here?" 

Ford tensed at the sound of footsteps behind him. He didn't turn to face them yet; he didn't know what to expect. Last time he'd heard those voices, it didn't end well, but it also had been a while, so…? 

"Galloping gumshoes, I do believe that's one of the Pines twins! All on his lonesome, apparently." The second voice dripped with fake surprise. 

"About time, wouldn't you say, Dickie?"

There were suddenly hands grabbing at the ropes of Ford's swing. Jumping, he turned to look, and found himself sandwiched between the Sibling Brothers. The boys' golden, slicked-back hair shone brightly in the late evening sunlight, and their eyes gleamed with a fire just barely concealed under fake bravado.

The one on his left, who was wearing a blue sweater vest and a white, long-sleeved shirt, nodded. "That I would, Ascot!"

The one on Stanford's right, Ascot, looked nearly identical to his twin in everything but clothing. He was wearing a red sweater with a yellow ascot poking out from beneath the collar of a white shirt. He smirked. "Say now, where is that brother of yours, freak? Not still grounded after the whole golden sticky-fingers incident, is he?" He turned up his brows in mock concern.

Ford shook his head. "N-no, he's- Stanley and I, we were just, uh…" he dug around for something to say. He did not have the time nor the patience for these two right now. He needed to march back to the Stan'O'War as quickly as possible and wait for his twin there. Hopefully he wouldn't be much longer, and if they did pass each other, they'd see it this time since it was getting late and there's no way Stanley wouldn't also be thinking that Ford was either at the swingset or the boat, right? "Just leave me alone!"

As Stanford moved to stand up, Ascot grabbed his jacket sleeve and yanked him back, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to knock him back into the seat. 

"Oh no you don't, Pines," he glowered. "We still have some unfinished business." 

Dickie leaned into Stanford's view, arms crossed. "Yeah. You owe us for the Jersey Devil debacle." 

Stanford frowned. "I don't owe you two anything! You tried to get my brother in trouble, and you keep calling me a freak!" He stood up sharply, trying to run again, only to hit the sand as Dickie tripped him. It got under his glasses and in his clothes, but he hardly noticed. He spun around, eyes flicking back and forth between the two boys. 

"Outstanding work, Dickie." 

"Many thanks, Ascot." 

The two of them started towards Stanford. He scrambled backwards, but couldn't seem to get his feet under him. 

"You know," Ascot began, "I'm starting to think your brother isn't here, Stanford." 

"What, did you finally get tired of him?"

"No…" Stanford looked away, still scooching backwards along the sand. Hopefully they were far enough away from where the broken glass was, he didn't want to get his hands cut up. They only had so many bandaids. "No, he just… he… went to go get ice cream?"

"Ho ho ho!" Dickie placed a hand on his guts in mock laughter. "So he really is gone!"

"No, he isn't!" Stanford stopped, purposefully focusing on his feet as he shakily stood back up. "I'm going to find him!" 

"Find him?" Ascot raised a brow. "And he has been missing for…?"

Crap. "Nothing! I mean, never! I know where he is!" Stanford pointed at them both accusingly. "And you better get outta here before he gets back! You don't wanna mess with him, trust me!"

The two gave each other a long look before bursting out laughing. If Ford had to describe it in a word, it'd be "snooty." 

"And just what makes you think you can solve any mysteries?" Dickie put his hands on his hips. "If it weren't for you two following us, you would have NEVER discovered the Jersey Devil in the first place!"

"And," Ascot added, stepping closer, attempting to loom over a boy his same height, "you were working as a team. You're alone now, aren't you, freak?"

"Stop calling me that!" Stanford burst out. He jammed his hands into his pockets, hating the feeling of his face heating up. "He's my brother, of course I'll find him! We always find each other!"

Dickie tapped his chin with a finger, rolling his eyes in thought. "You know, Ascot, I've been struck with an idea," he mused, dragging out his words.

"Do tell," Ascot waved a hand at his brother in a grandiose fashion. 

"That troublemaker means a lot to six fingers, doesn't he? Perhaps, if we find him first, he'll thank us instead. We could get our reign as Glass Shard Beach's best mystery solvers back!"

"Hey, Stanley would never-" 

"I like the sound of that, Dickie!" Ascot turned to smirk at Ford again. "If we found him first, then we would be considered great detectives, cracking a case that not even the so-called Kings of New Jersey could solve on their own!"

"We could restore our reputation" Dickie seemed genuinely excited now. "And get payback at the same time!" 

"Righto!"  

"Shut up!" Stanford threw his hands up in the air before stomping towards them. "My brother and I can take care of ourselves! You stay out of this!"

"Hah!" Ascot scoffed. "What's the matter, Pines? Afraid you'll lose?"

Ford straightened indignantly. "That's my twin you're talking about! You go stick your noses somewhere else, this is none of your business!"

"Sounds like the game is on," Dickie grinned. He turned on his heel, walking back towards the nearby boardwalk. "Tah tah, Pines, we'll see you on the other side of the proverbial finish line!"

Ascot followed right behind him. "May the best detective win!" He whipped his head around and blew out a raspberry at Ford, leaving the both of them giggling their snooty giggles as they walked their snooty walks back towards civilization.

Ford huffed, hands clenched. He had sand in his hair and in his jacket and shoes and pants and speckled on his glasses and he didn't care. This wasn't some random competition, this was his brother.

Despite himself, Ford crossed his arms. "Oh you'll see," he growled. He marched back over to the swings, grabbing his bindle, and began storming off. He had a boat to catch. "You'll see."

[newestcool]

Ann Demeulemeester 1993 Newest Cool

[itsgodepi]

If I lose my mind | Ch. 10

Series summary: When you're buried under a mountain of problems and can’t seem to catch a break, it might feel like you need a complete reset. But did it really have to come with a one-way ticket to a new dimension? Surely, a little problem-solving would’ve done the trick. Or, one day you go to sleep as a normal person and the next you wake up as a Formula One driver. You've never been a fan but isn't it like, one of the most exclusive sports? Pairing: CL16, LH44, CS55, DR3 x fem!reader Chapter: Previous | Next Word Count: 2.7k Also on AO3

“Bringing back bad memories, that one” Nick sighs, his eyes scanning you from head to toe to ensure everything is correctly placed. “You should take it off now or, else you'll forget.” 

You glance up at him from your seat, adjusting your shoes. “What is it?” you ask, your voice barely audible over the sounds of the mechanics working in the garage, even inside the driver room. 

“The necklace, I can keep it for you” he offers, extending his hand towards you, waiting. You follow his gaze down to the pendant resting against your chest, then back up to meet his eyes. Your hand instinctively moves to cover the necklace, reluctant to remove it. 

A surge of emotion rises within you as your fingers tighten around the pendant. This necklace, your grandmother’s, has become your anchor after all the time spent drifting through uncertainty. The first solid connection to reality you have found in what feels like an eternity. You could almost swear it flutters beneath your touch at the thought, gentle beats that offer a quiet, reassuring comfort. 

The thought of letting it go, even for a moment, feels unbearable. 

“No, no, I want to wear it for the race” you insist, voice steady despite the emotion. 

Nick drops his hand, his brows furrowing at your hesitation. "You know it’s not allowed, better not to get any more penalties for this..." He tries to lighten up the mood, although your silence is confirmation enough of his failure.  

“Alright, I’ll leave it here” you accept, reaching up to unclasp the chain.  

As you remove the necklace, you take a moment to hold it close, savouring its comforting weight. Taking a deep breath, you reach into the sports bag at your feet and open the inner pocket. However, you only use this motion to cover your movements, slipping the pendant into the fitted sleeve of your undershirt instead. Tucking it out of sight, until you can search for a better part to hide it.. 

Nick does not seem to notice your maneuver, and if he does, he remains silent.  

You stand up this time, taking the gloves and earpieces from the table Nick is leaning into. “What did you mean by bringing back bad memories?” you remember, placing the cables inside your race suit. 

The coach picks the neck support device and blue helmet in one hand, taking the lead and opening the door for you “It’s nothing, I’ll tell you later”. 

“But-” you insist, there are far too many conversations set aside for a later which does not seem to ever arrive. 

“No buts. Let’s focus on the race”

You frown up at the man “What are you talking about?”, tugging the sleeves of your race suit over your hips in a futile attempt to cool down from the Belgian heat.

“Look who’s here!” Carlos’ welcomes you into the group with a half-smile, a blend of amusement and surprise lighting up his brown eyes “What, are we finally worthy enough to talk to you?”

Lando rules out Carlos' hopes, putting a hand over the man's shoulder “Don’t think so highly of yourself. I bet she just couldn’t find Lewis. Isn’t that right?”

Despite just leaving the air-conditioned area, the fireproof fabric uncomfortably clings to your body like a second skin. Yet, in stark contrast, the men around you seem effortlessly composed.

A brief, involuntary flash of surprise that crosses your face at the mention of the British man. Yes, you might have been on his search for a while before settling for approaching the group, but the bigger question is: how does Lando know that?

With precise reflexes, you dart forward, clapping a hand over his mouth to stop the name from being shouted. It is only after the fact that you discover Daniel was messing with you, the British man is nowhere to be seen, and you have just dug your own grave.

Daniel’s eyes glint when he sees the doubts in your face, and comes up with a plan to quickly test Lando's theory

“He’s there, should we call him?" the Australian proposes, looking behind you and lifting his hand in the air. “Lew-!”

Feeling the weight of their gazes and clinging to the last shreds of your dignity, you retort “Well, you know, it’s not like you’re particularly friendly in the pre-race activities either!”

Chuckles within the group, complicit glances —and a couple sour smirks— traveling across the group of drivers. The “I knew it” which bursts out of Lando’s further cementing your suspicions. It is not the first time the topic has come up.

The stifling heat rises to your cheeks at the mere thought.

The driver’s reaction is immediate. A few eyebrows shot up in surprise and they fall silent, their playful demeanour shifting to genuine confusion. It is clear your comment catches them off guard.

Daniel, momentarily at a loss, tilts his head. “Wait, what do you mean? It’s you who’s been warning us not to distract you before races since the start of the season”

Lando, in a low murmur adds “Almost bit my head off last time I tried to wish her good luck”. His words, coupled with Carlos’ nod in agreement, leaving you even more baffled.

You stare at them, struggling o reconcile their version of events with the reality you’ve had no choice but to accept.

And yet, that theory would come crumbling to the floor as soon as you saw them interact with the rest of the grid. Chatting animatedly with their opponents as though it was any other day. Laughing and joking around while you could barely get a simple hello out of them.

Despite the care they have shown you off the track, an invisible barrier seemed to rise between you as the most crucial moment of the weekend approached. Always the same curt nods and smiles right when you stepped into the road. The jokes and teasing vanished when the ceremony started.

Initially, you attributed this to pre-race nerves. After all, these men were risking everything every weekend for a place in that elusive ranking—a goal they’ve dedicated their lives to. It seemed only natural for them to adopt a more reserved demeanour, to focus on what was to come.

It was fair though, they were the only ones who could understand each other’s worries. The only twenty people in the world who shared the uncommon experience of being a Formula One driver. Well, nineteen, the anxiety drowning your mind before a race was of a completely different nature.

You dreaded the minutes preceding the races, or even practices, the unnerving routine of dressing yourself up in these ridiculous clothes and acting like nothing were about to happen. Smile for the cameras, wave to the grandstands and wait. The blackout will come in no time, as soon as the lights mark the start of the race and you are drowned into the darkness. The hours will turn into second and you will open your eyes to the sound of the engine turning off, the start of a new week. A cyle that repeats itself again, and again. Inescapable.

That is your long-awaited reward after a week of relentless research for a solution to this nightmare. The mere thought of it tightens the tangle of emotions inside of you, the threads digging into every single part of your being. Threatening to snap.

“Oh, hello! What are you doing here?” you are pushed out of your head with the help of the missing Ferrari driver, his question and surprise a decalcomania of his teammate’s greeting.

With that, you decide to set the record straight “Well, you know what? I’ve changed my mind! You can talk to me as much as you want during the ceremonies”.

The conversation turns to the regulation’s changes and race talk soon after you lift that foolish ban.

Even if you have never expressed otherwise, it has come the time for you to step your foot down. You have dealt with enough rules of this ‘reality’ already, this is the one you are not going to go along with.

You are glad Lewis ignored it from the start.

“The oversteering’s been crazy, feels like I’m fighting the wheel half of the time” Carlos’ mutters, crossing his arms.

Lando, who’s been listening with a smirk, raises an eyebrow. “Come on, mate! So much whining for someone in P2, I’d trade you any day” the real issues the McLarens have been all weekend probably swarming his head despite his goofy remark.

You let out a chuckle. “Where’d you guys end up in qualifying? I don’t remember” you look back at the cars parked behind you, trying to decipher the team’s place in the grid for the Grand Prix.

“Yeah, yeah, keep looking for them. Let me know if you find it” Daniel mocks with a grin, his sarcasm clear “Got knocked out in Q2”.

“Thankfully!” Lando chimes in, giving his teammate a playful nudge, “Or else, I wouldn’t even be sitting in P10. We had to ditch of the deadweight”

As the staff signals for everyone to take their places for the National Anthem, the group begins to disperse. Carlos seizes the moment, guiding you through the crowd with a steady hand on your back, ensuring you don't get lost in the sea of journalists. His touch is gentle but firm, a subtle gesture of protection as he walks you to your designated spot.

Before Dan can turn to smack Lando, you cut in, shaking your head “You’re such crybabies”.

Your car sitting in eighteenth place—a world away from their complaints—making their grumbling seem almost absurd.

Since you finally allowed them to do it, the Ferrari driver wishes you a last good luck when you reach your spot, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to wave when I’m lapping you” a childish smirk playing on his lips. Your response is to jokingly push him away with a shake of your head, but you should have known better than to mess with a Formula One driver’s reflexes.

Carlos manages to catch your hand midway, using it as leverage to bring you close into a quick hug instead. “Buena suerte” he whispers in your ear, a very noticeable smile in his voice, before pulling away and walking over to his spot.

You watch him go, struggling to suppress the grin tugging at your lips. It would be tempting to claim that such antics are rare or that the Spaniard usually maintains a professional behaviour around you, but that would be far from the truth.

From the very beginning, Carlos has acted as though you shared the closest of relationships. And, while he has not been the only one acting with such familiarity around you, the Ferrari driver has always been the most blatant about it. Whether it's the small gestures, like bringing you a snack whenever he senses you might be hungry, or his public defense of you in front of the press after a controversial track move, his support has been unwavering. A support you are beyond grateful for —despite the anguish the latter one brought you, the fact that you underwent such complicated circumstances while being completely blackout still as terrifying as the first time.

Moments like this impromptu hug in the middle of a Grand Prix are trivial compared to his ongoing acts of kindness.

Naturally, the press and viewers does not quite see it that way.

At first, you tried to block out every headline with your name in it, the thought of someone dissecting your every movement and posting it for everybody to see sent chills down your spine. You pretended they did not exist for days, weeks even, but their presence was impossible to escape. Nick brought them up over breakfast, the media team held daily briefings, and journalists were waiting for you after every session. The more you ignored them, the louder they seemed to get, their words echoing in the corners of your mind.

Over time, you realized you couldn’t keep running. The internet was filled to the brim with information and photos of you. False information. But even that could help you understand what could possibly be happening. So you learned to confront them, to skim the articles without overthinking your situation. Even if sometimes the sight of their supposed prospects of your future in the sport got too much to handle.

What future? There is none here, this is all fake. A farce.

While the major newspapers and respected outlets maintained a veneer of professionalism, social media was an entirely different beast—a chaotic circus of opinions, rumours and speculation. You had never immersed yourself fully in the Formula One world —most of your knowledge came from your father—, but you couldn’t deny it was enjoyable. The endless stream fan jokes and theories of behind-the-scenes' drama keeping you thoroughly entertained in between races.

Yet, despite all this, you tried to absorb as much data as you cort. Read over the articles on the sport, watched interviews, even flipped through gossip magazines and, of course, scrolled endlessly through Formula One-related posts on social media. Honestly, the discovery of that phone in Charles’ apartment had revealed a new word before your eyes. Not only through messages app, which was filled with countless chats, but giving you access to ‘your’ personal accounts in several apps.

Personal profiles with millions of followers which offered a treasure trove of data.

It just so happens that this week’s hot topic had been your relationship with a certain Spanish driver.

There are countless videos of every interaction between you and Carlos —both the ones you’re aware of and those you aren’t. The captions often paint these moments with a dramatic, romantic flair that likely didn’t reflect the reality of the situation. Or maybe they did, you never know with that man. You can only imagine the headlines this quick hug between the two of you will generate.

Well, they may have better things to talk about.

Still half-conscious, your feet dragged you forward, between the parked F1 cars and into a pretty crowded area. The screams and cheers alerting you. You rise your head, the heavy helmet hindering your movements and restricting your vision, but you can clearly see you have unknowingly walked to the car’s Podium Holding Area. Two Red Bulls rest there, two Red Bulls and, to the side,… a Ferrari?

Like when you stumble out of your car after the race, your mind still reeling with the unpredictable flashes that assaulted you through all of it. The usual loss of consciousness replaced by blurred images flickering by, colours appearing and disappearing at the edges of your vision, while a light breeze brushed against your neck.

It… it had never happened before.

Your head shots up, eyes open like saucers as you look around for the drivers. One, in a navy-blue race suit, is by the barricades with the team, another by…

You don’t have to search long for the driver in deep red, because he’s sprinting straight towards you with open arms. There’s barely enough time for you to process it —just enough to catch the vibrant colors of Spain on his helmet—, before you instinctively open your own arms to embrace him.

“Oof” you let out at the impact, but Carlos simply raises you up in the air, tightly hugging you in as he gives a spin. You can only laugh at his excitement, the sound muffled by the padding and the clashes between of both your helmets. The chaos of the celebration around you fading into the background—the cheers, the music, the revving engines—all of it blurs into a distant hum.

The man lets you down, his hands grabbing your shoulders and jokingly shaking you back and forth, letting go off all the accumulated adrenaline he must have. “Ah, I can’t believe it! No sabes lo que me ha costado! (You have no idea how tough it’s been)” he confesses with a smile, lifting his visor as if you could see the effort he has put on the race just by the look on his eyes.

You give his chest a playful smack, skepticism in your eyes. They have spent all weekend gushing about how good the car felt in this track. “Pero… ¿tercero? ¿Segundo? (But… third? Second?)” you ask excitedly, lifting your visor to get a clearer view of the podium behind him.

The sickness that plagued you just moments ago vanished completely, slipping from your mind as if it was never there.

Carlos grabs hold of your helmet, tilting your head so you’re forced to meet his gaze. ”¿Qué dices? ¡He ganado! (What are you saying? I won!)” he corrects you, his eyes locked onto yours with a mix of triumph and disbelief.

“¡¿Qué?! (What?!)” you shout in surprise, and before you know it, you’re throwing your arms around Carlos, overwhelmed the surge of happiness that sweeps through you.

His loud, hearty laughter rumbles against your helmet, a deep, joyful sound that reverberates through the hug. You hold him even tighter, caught in this bubble of euphoria. You can feel the warmth of his body through your suits, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart in sync with the joy that floods over you. And also, a surprising sense of peace and closeness, a feeling that maybe he isn’t such a stranger anymore.

In that moment, while you are fused into a hug with the Ferrari driver, you pause to remind yourself a very important fact: this is all just your own mind playing tricks on you.

Next

Author's note: So it's been a long time since I last posted. I missed the story, seriously. I hope you all enjoyed the chapter a lot. Thank you all so much for reading, any kind of interaction is greatly appreciated!

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[princesssarisa]

In Heidi Ann Heiner's Cinderella Tales From Around The World, I've now read the variants from Germany, Belgium, and France.

*Of course the most famous German Cinderella story is Aschenputtel by the Brothers Grimm. If you don't know it from reading it, you probably know it from Into the Woods, and if you don't know it from there, you've probably heard of it in pop culture. Too many people mistakenly think it's the "original" version of Cinderella. But there are other German Cinderella stories too – all similar to the Grimms' version, but with differences here and there.

*In nearly every German version, and in both of the two Belgian versions the book features, the heroine gets her elegant gowns and shoes from a tree. It throws them down to her, or opens up to reveal them, after she either recites a rhyme underneath it or knocks on it.

**Some variants, like the Grimms', have the archetypal "father goes on a journey and asks for gift requests" plot line, and the heroine gets a hazel twig, which she plants on her mother's grave and which grows into a tree. But in other versions, the tree is seemingly a random one, which either a dove, a dwarf, or a mysterious old man or woman advises her to ask for finery.

**That said, there's one exception: a German version called Aschengrittel, where the heroine meets a dwarf who, like the fairies in some Italian versions, gives her a magic wand to grant her wishes.

*As in the Egyptian, Greek, and Italian versions, it varies whether the German versions have the heroine abused by a stepmother and stepsister(s) or by her own mother and sister(s), whether her father is alive or not, and whether the special event she attends is a royal ball/festival or a church service. In both of the two Belgian versions, the heroine's abusers are her own mother and sister(s).

*While in the Mediterranean versions, the heroine's future husband is always either a prince or (more rarely) a king, in the German versions he's occasionally a knight or a rich merchant instead.

*Other typical German and Belgian details are (a) the (step)mother forcing the heroine to sort lentils, seeds, or grain, usually by picking them out of the ashes, which is usually resolved by birds doing the job for her, (b) the prince (or king, or merchant) having the palace or church steps smeared with pitch so that the heroine loses her shoe, and (c) the notorious detail of the (step)sisters cutting off parts of their feet to make the shoe fit, which is revealed when either birds or a dog call out that there's blood in the shoe.

**One Greek version has the prince catch the heroine's shoe by having the church steps smeared with honey, but the Mediterranean Cinderellas usually lose their shoes either by accident or by choice, while in Germany and Belgium it's usually the prince's doing.

**The foot-cutting episode is clearly typical of German and Belgian versions, but the Grimms' other notorious detail, where the stepsisters' eyes are pecked out by doves at the end, isn't typical. The Grimms themselves added that grisly detail to give the story a more "moral" ending with the stepsisters appropriately punished.

*The Grimms' footnotes for their version are included in this book. They mention several other German variants, including two that continue after the heroine's marriage and have the stepmother and stepsister try to murder her, and one where the stepmother starts out as the heroine's childhood nurse and murders the girl's mother by pushing her out a window, then claims she committed suicide.

*The German, Belgian, and French Cinderellas aren't quite so cunning and unfazed as the Greek and Italian Cinderellas. Now we see more heroines who cry over their hardships, and/or who beg to be allowed to go to the ball/festival or church, and whose magical help is more given to them and less in their own control. One notable French exception to this pattern, though, is Madame d'Aulnoy's cunning and self-reliant Finette Cendron.

*France doesn't seem to have the same pattern of culturally-distinct oral versions of this tale that other countries do. Instead, the French examples in this book are nearly all literary versions, and each one is almost completely different from the others.

**Of course the most wildly famous and important French Cinderella is Charles Perrault's Cendrillon. This is the Cinderella we all know best, with the fairy godmother, the pumpkin coach, the magic only lasting until midnight, and the glass slipper.

**Published in the same year as Perrault's version was Madame d'Aulnoy's Finette Cendron. This is an interesting, much longer variation that starts out as a Hop o'My Thumb/Hansel and Gretel story, where three sisters are abandoned in the woods and nearly eaten by an ogre, only for the clever youngest, Finette, to outwit him, but then turns into a Cinderella story when the older sisters abuse Finette after they make the dead ogre's castle their home, but Finette follows them to a ball in finery she finds in a chest.

**Another French literary variant is The Black Cat, which starts out as a Cinderella tale, but then has the heroine be stranded on an island and give birth to a black cat son (long story), then turns into a Puss in Boots tale as the cat helps his mother. Yet another is The Blue Bull, where the heroine runs away from her stepmother with her only friend, a magical bull, only for the bull to be killed protecting her from lions, and which then becomes a Donkeyskin/All Kinds of Fur-type of story, where she becomes a servant at the prince's palace and gets her ballroom finery from the bull's grave.

*Perrault and d'Aulnoy's versions are the only two Cinderellas so far where the heroine has a fairy godmother. Yes, in some others there are fairies or mysterious old women who help her, but the concept of a fairy godmother seems to have French literary origins.

*These same two versions, Perrault's and d'Aulnoys are also where we first see strong emphasis on the heroine's virtue and kindness, even to her cruel (step)family. While some oral versions do have her forgive them in the end, these literary versions not only have her do that, but have her constantly be gracious and kind to them (Perrault) or save their lives even at great personal sacrifice (d'Aulnoy).

*Now that I've read Finette Cendron, I can see its slight influence on Massanet's opera Cendrillon. In Finette Cendron, instead of Perrault's choice to have the slipper taken from house to house, all the ladies are invited to the palace to try it on, and Finette's fairy godmother sends her a horse to ride there – just like Cinderella's fairy godmother transports her to the slipper-fitting at the palace in the opera. Finette Cendron's Prince Cherí also falls deathly ill with love for the mystery girl, but is cured when he finds her. (A recurring theme in many different variants, which I forgot to mention when I covered the Mediterranean versions.) In the opera, this has its parallel when Prince Charming faints in despair over the seeming failure of the slipper-fitting, and before that when Cinderella herself becomes gravely ill because she thinks she'll never see her prince again.

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