#Grace de Monaco | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

drivestraight · 16 days ago

Note

wildcard!!! I know that you are more focused on writing works centering max, lando and oscar. I wonder if there is any chance you will write about lestappen again in near future. I just love your lestappen works so much and I'm sorry if this question makes you feel uncomfortable 🥺🥺

from here

near future no, but here’s about 5k of my abandoned (little brother of the) prince of monaco charles x driver max wip ❤️ as a gift

The Guardian is first in the round of interviews. A woman named Marie sits across from the sofa, beside cameras, light panels, and mics.

“To start,” Marie says, donning a sympathetic smile. Max struggles to take her at face value. “I want to acknowledge that I’m sure this isn’t how either of you would have liked your relationship to come out. How are you two doing?”

Max tries his hardest to keep a neutral expression. He scowled his way through the hours of media prep yesterday and got scolded each time.

He shifts on the sofa. For a couch made for royalty, it is not very comfortable.

Of course, it comes much easier to Charles, who returns a warm smile. He keeps his eyes on Marie, but places a hand on Max’s thigh, to comfort him. God, everyone’s going to love this, aren’t they?

Horribly, the physicality does help. Max takes a deep breath.

“You’re right,” Charles responds. “It is not at all ideal, but we are thankful for all of the grace that has been extended to us these past few days.”

Max purses his mouth.

Marie glances at him, waiting for agreement. Instead, Max busies himself with studying the details of the room they’re in. The Salle Des Gardes: cobalt walls, beautiful flower bouquets, and centuries-old portraits framed with gold. It’s so beautiful it makes Max uncomfortable.

At his silence, Marie moves on, smiles, and says, “Well, it’s great to have you both here.”

“Yes,” Charles says, “it is. Right Max?” he probes, squeezing Max’s thigh.

Somehow, Max manages not to glare. He clears his throat and manages to hum in concurrence.

“So,” Marie says, “I guess we can start from the beginning. I’m sure everyone would like to know how you two met.”

Max is grateful at how quickly Charles jumps to respond, “I have been a big fan of F1 ever since I was a child,” he replies, “but I did not meet Max personally until the Monaco Grand Prix in 2021.”

“On the podium?”

It was collateral damage, really, Max’s champagne spray getting all over Charles during the celebration. Max hadn’t even known, until Charles told him many months later.

Charles nods. “Yes, on the podium. A little after the race, he was invited to dine with my family, as the winners always are, and we… liked each other. We got on very well that night.”

Yes, Max thinks. We talked, we ate, we drank, we got into a huge fight about Ferrari, we got kicked out of the venue hall, then we hooked up in the toilets upstairs.

Sure, they got on well that night.

“We started seeing each other quite a bit, after,” Charles finishes.

They saved each other’s numbers, and every now and then, between Max’s races and between Charles’ royal obligations, they’d meet up in Monaco.

“Who asked who out?”

Charles turns his head and looks at Max, expectantly.

Max glares, but Charles only lifts a brow, unwavering. “I did, I guess,” Max concedes, trying not to roll his eyes at the way Charles glows, dimples pressed deep into his cheeks.

In a way it’s true. Max had been the one to shove Charles up against a wall and kiss him, drunkenly and furiously.

For the next two years, it was easy, despite who they were, perhaps because of who they were. They were on the same page about what it was they had: purely an arrangement of convenience. Entirely physical, no-strings attached. They’d meet in Max’s flat, maybe have a drink and talk about the most recent race, and get to it. After, Max would let Charles use his shower, then Charles would leave. Not once would Charles ever sleep over.

Still, they were exclusive, in a way. Max found something good, something safe, something easy, with someone who was on the same page as him. They were physically compatible. They wanted the same things from each other. Max didn’t see a need to look elsewhere, and neither did Charles.

Max had no interest in making it any more than it was. Neither did Charles.

For two years, it was simple like that. Max bribed his doorman, and Charles swore his security detail to secrecy. Charles hadn’t told anyone about Max. Max hadn’t told anyone about Charles. No one needed to know. What was there to tell? The F1 world champion and the Prince of Monaco’s little brother were friends with benefits? They were barely friends.

“Yeah?” Marie asks, looking surprised. “What was it about Charles that interested you?”

Charles’ expression is rapt and curious, his focus singularly on Max now.

Well, Max thinks. If they want him to speak from his heart, that’s what he’ll do.

“Of course,” Max says, smiling for the first time since the news broke, “it was not his personality.”

Marie laughs, amused. Charles makes an unbecoming noise, his entire face scrunching up.

“Max!” he squawks, outraged.

“What?” Max asks innocently, tipping his head to the side. He is starting to have a little fun. He finds Charles’ hand on his thigh, lays his over his knuckles, his thumb brushing at his wrist. “I thought we were of course wanting to be honest today. Your personality is not the first thing people notice about you.”

Annoyed, Charles purses his lips. “And what is?”

Max hums in faux contemplation. “Your face, of course.”

Charles’ brows knit together. Max relishes in the fact that Charles is the one on his toes this time. “You only like me for my face?”

Rolling his eyes, Max says, “It is the only good part about you.”

Charles squints, licks his lips, and levels Max with a look. Max knows that look: he is thinking, planning.

It is pin-drop silent for a short moment. Suddenly, the room feels very small.

Charles leans in closer, marginally, but enough that Max’s breath hitches, and slides his hand higher up, his fingers firm against the inside of Max’s thigh. “Really? None of the other parts you like?”

Max lets his eyes wander: from the mole on Charles’ cheek to the one on his neck, from the dip of his Cupid’s bow to the stubble on his chin. It is distracting and it is unfair, how beautiful Charles is.

“Really,” Max says, gaze returning to Charles’ eyes. He will hold his ground, even if he doesn’t mean it. “None of it.”

Thirty minutes later, Marie and all the cameramen leave. They are given half an hour in private to rest before their next interview. Le Parisien this time. At least then, he thinks, they’ll be more significantly more interested in Charles than they will be for him.

Even though they’re technically free now, the palace made it clear that they are not to leave this room until they’ve finished the last interview.

Once the doors shut and they are alone, Charles turns and glares at him.

Since the news broke yesterday morning, this is the first time they’ve truly been alone.

“Your team will not be happy with that. You saying you like me only for my face.”

Of course that’s what Charles will take from the interview. After Marie asked all her questions about the genesis of their relationship, her questions pivoted to Max, about what it means for him to be the first openly gay Formula 1 driver in decades.

Each time he was asked a question, Charles squeezed his knee, running circles with his thumb.

Max hadn’t met with his PR team beforehand—Monaco’s royalty took priority, monopolized him and all of yesterday. He had no idea what Red Bull wanted him to say, what the optics were, so he spoke from the heart.

His answers were simple: it means nothing to him. It means nothing to what he has achieved. He never wanted to be an inspiration. An icon. An idol. If he is, then he is, but that was never his intention, that was never his goal.

Nothing changes.

“Obviously, I was joking,” Max mumbles, standing up and pacing around in front of the sofa. There’s a whole table filled with refreshments, and Max is hungry—he’s always hungry—but the season is in full swing, and he needs to keep his weight down. He wishes they had Red Bull or something, but they only have tea and coffee. He settles for shoving his hands into the dress slacks he was forced into, pressing the tip of his Oxford shoe against the border of the carpet. “And I do not think your team will be very happy with you feeling me up on camera.”

Charles huffs. He crosses his arms over his chest, defensively. “I had to make it seem like we like each other, after what you said.”

Max scoffs and sits back down on the couch, toying with the seam of the green plush pillow beside him. “I think everyone is pretty convinced that we like each other,” he mutters, and then, mortifyingly, his stomach growls. Loudly. It’s the afternoon now, and he hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

And Charles stands all of a sudden. Max watches, confused, as Charles makes a beeline to the table of refreshments, shoes clacking against the hardwood until he reaches carpet. There is a way about how Charles moves, magnetic to the eyes. He grabs a small scone, then heads back to Max.

Closer and closer, until he’s settled between Max’s spread thighs, towering over him.

Bossily, he shoves the scone in front of Max’s face. “Eat. We have a long day.”

Max sighs. He’s explained this to Charles before, his diet. “Charles,” he says, hoping that’s enough, not wanting to give the whole spiel again.

“It is a royal order,” Charles says seriously. He presses the scone against Max’s mouth.

Max angles his head away. “I am Dutch, if you didn’t know.”

“You live in Monaco,” Charles insists, “and I am the Prince.”

Max snorts. “You are the little brother of the Prince.”

In lieu of a verbal response, Charles sighs and places his hand on Max’s cheek, leveling Max with a look, that same one from before. His palm is soft, smooth, but his thumb is firm where it presses against the seam of Max’s lips, coaxing his mouth open. The ball drops; the rally ends. At the end of the day, Max is starving. He cuts his losses and bites, gaze fixed on Charles as he chews on the stupid scone. Once he’s swallowed, he expects Charles to let up, but Charles raises a brow, pressing the scone against Max’s lips again. Max groans, understanding, and takes another bite, and another, and just as he’s about to finish the scone, Charles quickly pulls it back, and eats the last bite himself.

Max rolls his eyes. Of course. Charles giggles, and wipes off a crumb from the corner of Max’s lip. Even when Max’s face is clean, Charles keeps his hand on Max’s cheek, smoothing out his frown.

They linger like this for a few moments, and Max feels the anxiety leftover from the interview start to dissipate, his shoulders laxing.

“I know you did not want this,” Charles says quietly. “I did not want it either.” Max swallows, his chest feeling tight. “But it’s like this, and we have to do it together. If it is to work, we have to make it look real.”

“I know,” Max says, starting to feel bad. Charles got fucked over with all of this too. Today, Charles is more calm, more—present, than he was yesterday, a quiet wreck in the briefing. His mental resiliance really is something. He places a hand on Charles’ waist, pulling him in closer. “I was of course there in the briefings.”

Charles pokes harshly at Max’s cheek, like he is trying to sculpt an artificial dimple. “I do not think you were listening.”

Max closes his thighs around Charles’ legs. He is very warm, and they have half an hour before the next interview. Hm. They might as well spend it wisely.

“Can you read my mind now? Is that another one of Prince Charles’ royal powers?”

Before Charles can respond, Max tightens his grip on his waist, before sliding his hand lower, to grab at Charles’ ass. Charles’ eyes widen, his mouth parts in surprise, and he sucks in a gasp.

“Max,” he whispers, blushing a soft pink. His hand drops to Max’s shoulder to steady himself.

“We of course have time,” Max points out, bringing his other hand to Charles’ other cheek, tugging him closer through the fabric of his slacks. “And we have a long day.”

It’s been months since the last time they did this. Not since before winter testing.

Max only now realizes how much he’s missed it.

“Not here,” Charles mumbles shyly, looking around, as if there’s anyone else here. Despite his protests, he doesn’t make any effort to fight Max’s hold.

Maybe, Max thinks, Charles misses it too.

“Why not?” Max asks. “Do you not like being watched by the portraits? They are your ancestors, right? I don’t think they’d mind.”

Charles sighs, but Max catches a small smile on his face. Regardless, Charles shakes his head, stubborn. “It is not the portraits I am worried about. What if someone comes in?”

“It will be their fault for not knocking,” Max snorts. At Charles’ withering glare, he sighs and says, “No one’s going to come in. There are guards outside.”

“Still,” Charles argues, pink all the way up to his ears now. His eyes drop to Max’s lips, then back up to his eyes. “We will be… messy for our interview.”

“But it will seem like we really like each other a lot,” Max jokes, grinning.

Charles doesn’t take the joke well. He pouts and pinches Max’s ear with his fingernails. Max laughs and releases Charles’ ass. “Fine, fine,” he concedes. “At least come here?”

Charles pulls his mouth to the side. “Will you behave?”

Max shows Charles his palms, hands positioned before his chest. “I will behave,” he assures.

Charles shoots him one last look, before sighing and climbing up onto the sofa, knees on either side of Max’s lap, and sitting. Immediately, he buries his face in the side of Max’s neck, his hair tickling Max’s ear, and lets out a contented noise.

Max barely got any sleep last night, all wired up, and from how exhausted Charles looks—feels, melting into him, breathing softly, maybe the first moment of silence he’s had all day—he can tell it must have been the same for him.

For a few minutes, they stay like that. Max closes his eyes, stroking Charles’ back. There are too many layers between them. Max kind of wishes he took his suit jacket off, or at least his tie, before he asked Charles to sit on his lap. Too late now, Max thinks, nosing at the spot below Charles’ ear. He notices, in this time, that Charles must be wearing a new cologne. It is nice; he smells nice. Charles always smells nice.

Max presses a harmless kiss on the side of Charles’ neck. Then another and another, until no space is left unkissed. He moves to the center of Charles’ throat, and Charles lets it happen, lets Max pepper small kisses along the ridges, his mouth closing, softly, over his carotid, Charles’ heart pulsing like a rabbit between Max’s lips. Charles likes that: the little kisses. When Max reaches the cut of his jaw, he starts to be a bit more bold with it—licking and biting gently, Charles’ stubble rough against his tongue, tracing the contours of him.

Charles starts to let out little pants, his hips starting to roll ever-so-slightly. Max slides a hand between their chests, what little space is left between them, and finds Charles’ crotch, gently palming over the bulge. He’s half-hard already. Max hums, pleased.

Finally, he makes the move and makes it stick: firmly, he kisses Charles, right on the lips. It is a tender kiss, but deep and filled with intent. No more pretense.

Breathily, Charles mumbles against his mouth, “This is not behaving.” He sounds annoyed, but he keeps kissing Max back, keeps grinding his ass on top of Max’s crotch.

Max pulls away, laughing when Charles immediately chases his mouth and makes an unhappy, surprised noise, laughing when he opens his eyes and sees Charles’ eyes: dark, pupils wide and wanting.

“Okay,” he says, voice a little raspy, even to his own ears. “We can stop.”

Charles’ jaw drops. Outrage is a cute look on him. “Oh,” he says, brows furrowing, exhaling through his nose, “you are—”

He doesn’t finish. He only shakes his head, grabs Max’s face with both his hands, firmly, and kisses him, furiously.

Charles’ mouth is soft and plush, but his kiss has a fire to them, an intensity; this part has always been the easiest, with him. The physicality. Everything else, that’s the difficulty.

Their noses brush, and Max pivots away, only slightly, to kiss at the corner of Charles’ mouth, light and teasing. “Yeah? What am I?”

Charles finds his lips again, positions Max’s head right back where it was, and plants a kiss square on his mouth. “Horrible,” Charles says, and kisses Max again. “Annoying,” he says, and kisses Max again. “The worst,” he says, and kisses Max again.

“Don’t let anyone hear you say that, of course,” Max says, helping Charles take his suit jacket off. “We have to seem like we like each other.”

Charles doesn’t deign him with a response, merely rolls his eyes and tosses the jacket to the side. He is gorgeous like this: eyes blown and glossy, his mouth parted, wet, begging to be kissed.

So Max kisses him again, his hands rucking Charles’ button-up from his slacks, until he can slip his hands under the fabric, finding his waist. He uses this newfound leverage to flip their positions, to maneuver Charles so that he’s on his back and horizontal on the ugly, uncomfortable sofa. Charles yelps; his chest heaves, and his throat bobs. He is so pretty like this: in the painfully bright light of this room, it is even more vivid, and for the first time since the news broke yesterday, Max thinks, maybe this will be worth it.

Max takes the moment to burn the sight of him into his retinas: his mousy hair messy around his head like a halo, his kiss-swollen lips parted and wanting, his clothes, even, rumpled and wrinkled in a way that Max knows he hates, in a way that he never lets anyone see.

Half an hour. Half of that is probably gone by now, Max reckons. They’ll have to hurry. He can take his time, another time.

He forces himself to focus. He takes off his own jacket before he forgets, shoves Charles’ thighs apart so that one leg is splayed off the couch, then he drives his knee between them. He swoops down once again, and Charles sighs dreamily into his mouth. Max slides his hands down Charles’ chest until he’s found the buttons of Charles’ slacks, undoing them with deft fingers.

“This is—” Charles starts, lifting his hips, helping Max pull his bottoms to his thighs. Multi-tasking, Max kisses down his throat, skips down to his stomach, and kisses at the happy trail leading from below his belly-button. Distracted, Charles moans and writhes beneath him, throwing his forearm over his eyes. Cute.

“What was that?” Max asks, amused. He kisses Charles’ hip bone lightly, and wraps his fingers around the base of Charles’ length, adoring the way Charles’ hips buck at the touch. He traces a vein with his thumb, his precum making the slide easy, then spits into his hand—not like they need it—and starts to jerk him off. Brows knitted together, Charles squirms, so Max keeps his body steady with a hand on his stomach, feeling the flutter of muscle there.

Charles tries again, propping himself up on his elbows so that he can meet Max’s eyes. His face is pink, and his breaths come squeaky. He scrunches his nose, prissy and aristocratic, and says, “This is a very old couch. And my suit is very expensive.”

Max sighs and rolls his eyes.

“I’ll keep you clean,” he promises, and takes Charles into his mouth, hollows his cheeks, and sinks as far down as he can go.

Against all odds, they have some time to spare. They spend it fixing each other’s clothes and sex hair, making each other look at least somewhat presentable. Unfortunately, while Max had kept his promise and kept Charles clean, Charles hadn’t returned the favor; now there’s a probably irreparable stain on the antique couch. Oops, Max thinks, and he makes Charles sit on it for their next round of interviews.

It isn’t so bad.

Thankfully, F1 was the only one they’d been on video for. Charles, for the rest of the day, is hazy-eyed and loose-limbed. Max capitalizes on his distraction, teases Charles as much as he can and knows how to—Charles lets it all happen.

And he seems, almost, as if to enjoy it.

But maybe Max is projecting.

By dinnertime, Max is finally released. Charles is whisked away by his brother before Max even tries to get a word in, so he doesn’t try. He gets driven home, orders Brad-approved takeout, and calls his dad. Lets him know how the day went. After, he calls his mum, then his sister, and then Raymond. At 8 PM, Brad comes over for training. They talk about things that don’t matter. At 10 PM, Max showers, brushes his teeth, turns off the lights, and crawls into bed. He checks his messages. He frowns when he notices that Charles hasn’t texted. Max isn’t sure why he was expecting him to.

He checks his other texts. He sees that Gemma has texted him his media schedule for the weekend. He doesn’t bother reading it, leaves it for tomorrow. He puts his phone down on the table, closes his eyes, and thinks.

In all this time, the world hadn’t stopped spinning. Even now, it doesn’t stop spinning. Media day is in three days. Infinitely worse: it’s Monaco. Charles will be there; for all of it, he will be there. Normally, WAGs and—now, Max guesses—BAHs are off-limit topics, but there’s no guarantee his sexuality will be. They will want to prep him. Make sure he doesn’t say anything stupid. Charles will be there, and they will have to act in love. Max will have to dodge cameras and avoid journalists the entire weekend. He will have to make statements. He will have to respond. Charles will be there.

On Sunday, Charles will be on the podium.

On Sunday, Max wants to win.

Too much to think about. Too much to worry about.

One day at a time, Max thinks. One day at a time.

Voici got a hold of the story first. Apparently, evidence had been slowly building up for months—quotes from Max’s building neighbors and a now-fired member of Charles’ security detail.

The most incriminating evidence, however, were the pap photos taken of them kissing in Max’s car.

They’d been so careful—but maybe, over the last few months, they’d grown complacent.

The story broke the day of the cancelled race in Imola, first thing in the morning. Four hours later, Le Parisien got a hold of it, and that’s when shit started to really hit the fan.

Red Bull was blindsided.

So was the Crown.

Max had been blissfully unaware until around noon when he woke up. For many hours, quieted by Do Not Disturb, his phone had been blowing up with calls from Raymond, from Christian, from his father. Everyone important in his life. Before he got a chance to call any of them back, he spotted the ESPN notification at the top of his screen:

Max Verstappen: Formula 1’s reigning world champion and first gay driver in decades?

Below that, an Apple News notification:

Monaco’s Sweetheart breaks hearts worldwide? The inside scoop of Prince Charles of Monaco and Max Verstappen’s 2-year long affair.

In a way, nothing in any of the reports had exactly been false.

Max was driven to the palace, silently escorted to a meeting room, and he was seated next to Charles, who was quiet and playing with his hands in his lap and looked like he might throw up. In that moment, Charles looked—small. Charles looked—afraid. Max had never seen him like that before. Max wanted to say something, wanted to ask him if he was okay, but the meeting was in full swing; they hadn’t even paused for Max’s entrance. He settled with placing a hand on Charles’ thigh, his heart rabbiting in his chest. Charles laid his hand over Max’s. It was all Max could do. Max was afraid too.

Once he arrived, however, they switched to English, and explained the plan they came up with while he was sleeping: to confirm the status of their relationship, and run a full press tour. Immediately, without coordinating with Red Bull. That the Prince’s little brother was not only dating a man, but dating the F1 world champion, needed an immediate response, and Charles’ image takes priority over Max’s.

They needed to take control of the narrative, spin it in the right way: They’re in love.

Max didn’t understand. He interrupted halfway, “But we’re—” He glanced at Charles, silent beside him. “We’re not actually—”

Finally, Charles spoke up. He lifted his head, turned to Max, and said, “It does not matter.”

“But—”

“Max,” Charles said, with finality. His eyes were shaking. He looked more upset than Max had ever seen him. “It does not matter.”

And that was that.

Tuesday morning, Red Bull post official statements on all their social media platforms, and Max’s social media manager posts a statement from him that he didn’t write. He doesn’t see any of it himself. He stays offline.

That afternoon, he’s in a few virtual meetings with marketing, and they confirm with him the schedule Gemma sent, that they’ve canceled the shootings he had with Checo, and that they want him to focus on keeping a low profile.

He has done more than they needed him to, thanks to the insistence of the Crown.

The interview with Marie won’t be released until Thursday, but Red Bull had received an early preview from the Guardian. To his surprise, the team is satisfied with it. They of course aren’t exactly pleased with some of his responses, and they request that he answer differently and less abrasively next time, but Max is guessing that their expectations were so low that he managed to exceed them, somehow.

They hadn’t even wanted him to speak to any press in the first place. Neither had Max, obviously, but Charles—it would have been silly if Charles had done the interviews alone. Charles needed him there. So.

Wednesday, he streams on Twitch with RedLine. It wasn’t exactly news to them or anyone close to him, the gay thing, but the Charles thing, well—it was a surprise to everyone. Even Max. The boys ask him if he wants them to steer clear from making any jokes about it, and Max says he doesn’t care either way. The last thing Max wants is for his friends to walk on eggshells around him; the last thing Max wants is for things to change any more than they already have. So Crane jokes about it, Bennett jokes about it, and Max also jokes about it. They permaban anyone in chat who jokes about it.

And that’s Wednesday.

Thursday isn’t the hell he was expecting it to be.

Red Bull managed to pull strings and get Max out of the press conference and TV pen appearances, and Checo’s been left to handle the fanzone all on his own, so Max stays inside the Red Bull Energy Station, keeps his head down as much as possible, ignoring the roars of reporters outside, only speaking with his engineers and mechanics.

Tomorrow, though, he won’t be able to get around media.

Don’t worry about the press, GP tells him in the paddock, clasping a hand on his shoulder. It’s all noise. Just focus on driving. Nothing changes, at least from our end.

Max tries his hardest to believe it.

#lestappen #my writing #i’ve posted this before but it’s fine #ask game

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gracie-bird · 3 months ago

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#AI generared picture of Grace Kelly in 1955

#ai #grace kelly #princess grace #royals #royalty #monaco #grace de monaco #1955 #grace of monaco

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chicinsilk · 3 days ago

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Grace Kelly

November 12, 1929 - September 14, 1982.

Photo Milton H. Greene (circa 50s)

#grace kelly #grace de monaco #princess grace #milton h.greene #50s #american actress #american icon

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augustgrace · 2 years ago

Photo

GRACE KELLY - COLORIZED BY ME & @graceandfamily ♡

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hotvintagepoll · 7 months ago

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Propaganda

Shima Iwashita (Goben no Tsubaki)—Shima Iwashita was THE leading lady of Shochiku (one of the 3 major movie studios in Japan) for over 16 years, including the entirety of 1960s. She's been two-time winner of the Blue Ribbon Awards for Best Actress and the winner of the Japanese Academy Award of actress in a leading role in 1977. Famously known in Japan as the actress best suited to wearing kimono, Iwashita often played elegant, strong-willed, and sometimes vengeful female characters. She is particularly adept at portraying women's independence and self-reliance, as well as their delicate inner feelings, and has portrayed a number of sentimental and individualistic women in her many period and contemporary dramas. Her talent was discovered by Yasujirō Ozu, one of the world's greatest filmmakers, who told Shochiku executives at the time, "She is an exceptional talent who comes along only once in a decade." Ozu cast her as the female lead in his final film An Autumn Afternoon before he died of cancer in 1963. Now at the age of 83, she is as beautiful as ever.

Grace Kelly (Rear Window, High Society, Dial M for Murder)—The literal princess of Hollywood (she retired at 26 to become princess of Monaco), her name said everything about why she was so hot. She carried herself with a grace and elegance you just don't see anymore. Her voice was sultry without being overbearing, and she had the ability to be sweet but suggest a deep sensuality at all times.

This is round 4 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Shima Iwashita:

Grace Kelly:

flawlessly beautiful and a literal princess

Her facial structure? Flawless. Her eyes? Stunning. Her hair? Gorgeous. Her style? Immaculate. Every second she’s on screen, she just exudes this elegance and sophistication. It’s no wonder she ended up marrying a prince. But she’s got this mischief in her eyes that is compelling.

She was so elegant, so beautiful and perfect I could cry for real. A fairy disguised as a woman.

the most beautiful of Hitchcock's "icy blondes". elegant, glamorous, she left hollywood to became an actual princess, I mean, COME ON

she's so pretty and refined and elegant! I'm pretty sure taylor swift's blonde hair red lip look is modeled partly after her

She's just so elegant, look at her all dressed up like a Barbie doll in the latest fashions. There's a quiet dignity about her.

Not only was she princess of Monaco she also is Stéphanie de Monaco's mother and yeah, vote for her she's soooo pretty That red dress in Dial M.... hot damn

To me, she is the first and only blonde. She earned it. Paired with Edith Head's costume design she is unstoppable. I dare anyone to watch her as Lisa Carol Fremont in Rear Window and not be completely blown away by her hotness.

SHE IS SO PRETTY AND FASHIONABLE!! Not only that but she has an alluring aura to her in whatever film I've seen her in! Rear Window is just one of my personal favorite films she was in, especially for her costumes in that. And how many actresses can you say was a princess consort in addition to being a famous leading lady?

#grace kelly #shima iwashita #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 4

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onlyonetifosi · 1 year ago

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Behind the camera: chapter 1

<- previous series masterlist my main masterlist next ->

It was a warm summer afternoon in the small town of Monte Carlo, Monaco, where the Leclerc family resided. Yn and Charles, just three years old, were playing in their backyard, their laughter echoing through the air. Despite being twins, Yn and Charles had their distinct personalities and looks, yet they shared an unbreakable bond

"Charles, catch me if you can!" Yn giggled, running around the garden, her little feet barely keeping up with her enthusiasm

"Attends, Yn! I'm coming!" Charles called back, his eyes shining with excitement as he chased after his sister

Their playtime was always filled with joy and mischief, and today was no exception. Their older brother, Lorenzo, joined in the fun

"Lorenzo, regarde! Look at me!" Yn shouted as she tried to perform a somersault. "Je peux le faire! I can do it!"

Lorenzo clapped his hands, "Wow, Yn! That was great!"

Charles, feeling a little competitive, decided to show off too. "Watch this! Je vais faire un saut en hauteur! I'm going to do a high jump!"

Yn and Lorenzo watched in awe as Charles jumped, trying to touch the lowest branch of a nearby tree. He didn't quite reach it, but his attempt was still impressive.

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In the following weeks, Yn attended her ballet classes with enthusiasm, and her love for dancing only grew. Charles, on the other hand, developed an interest in racing from a young age. Hervé, a racing enthusiast himself, couldn't be happier to see his son's passion for speed and cars. He gifted Charles a small toy race car, which quickly became his most treasured possession

"Maman, look what I can do!" Yn twirled around clumsily, trying her best to imitate the graceful movements she had seen on TV. Her parents smiled lovingly, encouraging her tiny attempt at ballet

"Très bien, ma chérie! You're doing great," her mother praised, clapping her hands. "You'll be a wonderful little ballerina!"

"Charles, you should try too!" Yn beamed, hoping her brother would join in her enthusiasm for ballet.

Charles laughed and shook his head. "No, no, Yn. I want to be a race car driver like Papa! Vroom vroom!" He pretended to steer an imaginary car, and Lorenzo enthusiastically joined in the play

Pascale and Hervé watched their daughter with pride, celebrating every little step she took in her ballet journey. However, Yn's clumsiness soon caught the attention of the other girls in her ballet class, who began to tease and make fun of her

"Regardez-la, elle danse comme un éléphant maladroit! (Look at her, she dances like a clumsy elephant!)" one of the girls mocked, causing the others to giggle.

Yn felt her enthusiasm waning, her heart heavy with sadness. She couldn't understand why the other girls were mean to her, but she was determined not to let their words discourage her.

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As the twins grew older, they started kindergarten, and Yn was excited to embark on this new adventure with her brother. However, things didn't go as smoothly as she had hoped. Charles, being the more outgoing and confident of the two, quickly made friends with the other children, while Yn struggled to connect with her peers

One day, after a particularly challenging day at school, Yn came home feeling downcast. She sat at the kitchen table with her parents, sharing her feelings

"Maman, Papa, pourquoi est-ce que Charles a toujours des amis, et moi, je n'en ai pas?" (Mom, Dad, why does Charles always have friends, and I don't?) Yn asked tearfully

Her parents exchanged understanding glances, and her father pulled her into a comforting hug. "Ne t'inquiète pas, ma chérie. Les amis viendront avec le temps. Tu es spéciale, tout comme ton frère." (Don't worry, my dear. Friends will come with time. You're special, just like your brother)

Yn nodded, trying to hold back her tears. She wished she could be as confident and popular as Charles, but it seemed like an impossible task

Months passed, and Yn tried her best to keep her feelings buried, not wanting to upset her brother or their parents. But one day, the weight of it all became too much to bear. Unable to hold back any longer, Yn confronted Charles during their walk home from school

"Charles, tu ne comprends pas. C'est difficile pour moi. Les autres se moquent de moi et je n'ai pas d'amis" she finally confessed, her voice quivering with emotion. (Charles, you don't understand. It's hard for me. The others make fun of me, and I have no friends)

Charles stopped in his tracks, finally seeing the pain in his sister's eyes that he had been blind to for so long "Je suis désolé, Yn. Je ne savais pas) he said, feeling regretful (I'm sorry, Yn. I didn't know)

They sat down on a nearby bench, and Yn poured her heart out to Charles about the loneliness she had been enduring. Charles listened attentively, his heart aching for his sister. He realized how selfish he had been, caught up in his own excitement without noticing the pain she was going through.

"Je suis vraiment désolé, Yn. Je ne voulais pas te faire du mal. Je serai là pour toi, quoi qu'il arrive" Charles said, his eyes filled with sincerity. (I'm truly sorry, Yn. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'll be there for you, no matter what happens)

Tears welled up in Yn's eyes as she hugged her brother tightly “Merci, Charles. Je t'aime” she whispered, feeling a rush of relief (Thank you, Charles. I love you)

From that day on, Charles made a conscious effort to include Yn in his circle of friends, and the two became inseparable. Yn also found solace in pursuing other hobbies and interests, such as drawing and storytelling, where her creativity and uniqueness were celebrated.

Their relationship grew stronger as they navigated through childhood together. Their parents often marveled at how inseparable they were, and even though they had their fair share of fights, their bond only deepened with time.

#behind the camera fic #f1 imagine #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x sister!reader #arthur leclerc imagine #arthur leclerc x sister!reader #f1 drivers x reader #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f2 imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fanfiction #arthur leclerc

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roseistifosi · 3 months ago

Text

A Night in Monaco (part one) AS 12

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Words: 1.4K A/N: This is the first fic I ever wrote so please be nice loll, BTW

TW: Pregnacy ?

Monte Carlo, Monaco, 1993

The opulence of Monte Carlo sparkles under the starlit sky, an endless expanse of luxury and extravagance that feels almost otherworldly. You, a young bartender working in one of Monaco’s most exclusive venues, navigate the bustling bar with practiced grace. The clinking of glasses, the murmur of animated conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter create a vibrant tapestry of sounds that is both exhilarating and exhausting.

It's the weekend of the 1993 Monaco Grand Prix, a time when the city’s usual glamour is amplified tenfold. The streets are packed with racing enthusiasts, celebrities, and high-profile guests. Your bar is no exception, brimming with a mix of excited patrons eager to celebrate the high-octane event.

With your striking (your hair color) hair and penetrating (your eyes color) eyes, you move fluidly among the patrons, your uniform crisp and your demeanor friendly yet professional. Your days in Monte Carlo have been a whirlwind of bright lights and fast-paced social interactions, a sharp contrast to the quiet life you left behind in Solna. The energy of the city is a double-edged sword—thrilling yet overwhelming.

On this particular evening, as the bar’s atmosphere buzzes with excitement, a man walks in who immediately captures everyone's attention. Ayrton Senna, the Brazilian Formula 1 racing icon, enters with an aura of intense charisma and unparalleled skill. His dark suit and the confidence he exudes seem to amplify the allure of the Monaco night.

You notice him as he approaches the bar. The usual commotion seems to fade into the background as he steps into your space, his presence commanding attention. His dark, contemplative eyes meet yours with a warmth that contrasts sharply with the cool demeanor of his public persona.

“Champagne, please,” Ayrton says, his voice carrying a soft, melodic accent.

Your hand moves instinctively to retrieve a bottle of champagne, your mind momentarily distracted by the celebrity in front of you. “Of course. It’s quite the night for champagne,” you reply with a smile.

As you pour the drink, your conversation starts with small talk—questions about the race, the city, and each other’s lives. Ayrton’s charm is evident, but it’s his genuine curiosity and thoughtful responses that draw you in. He speaks with an intensity that makes you feel as though you’re alone, despite the busy surroundings.

Hours pass, and the bar begins to empty. The crowd thins, leaving behind a quieter atmosphere that feels more intimate. Ayrton, noticing the change, suggests you take a walk outside. You hesitate for a moment, then agree, feeling a mix of intrigue and anticipation.

The streets of Monte Carlo at night are a far cry from the daytime frenzy. The city breathes softly under the moonlight, and the calmness of the night provides a stark contrast to the earlier excitement. Ayrton and you walk through the serene avenues, your conversation flowing with an ease that comes from genuine connection.

You end up at the Hôtel de Paris Monte-Carlo, an establishment as renowned for its elegance as for its exclusivity. Ayrton leads you to his suite, and the opulence of the surroundings only enhances the sense of intimacy between you. The night unfolds with a blend of passion and tenderness, your connection deepening with each shared moment.

As dawn begins to break, the reality of the situation settles in. You wake alone, the suite’s luxurious furnishings starkly contrasting with the emptiness you feel. The bed beside you is neatly made, and the silence of the room is punctuated only by the soft rustle of paper.

On the pillow next to you lies an envelope, meticulously placed. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, you pick it up and carefully open it. Inside is a letter, written in Ayrton’s elegant script.

“Dear Y/N,

Thank you for a memorable evening. I regret that I had to leave before you awoke; my schedule demands I return to my responsibilities. I hope the night was as meaningful for you as it was for me. Enclosed is a small token to ensure you are well taken care of.

With warm regards,

Ayrton S.”

Along with the letter is a sum of money, not as compensation but as a gesture of respect and care. Your emotions are a tangled mix of gratitude, confusion, and a sense of loss. The night was both exhilarating and ephemeral, a fleeting connection that has left a lasting impact.

You read the letter several times, each reading stirring a new wave of emotions. The words, though simple, carry a depth of sentiment that makes the experience all the more poignant. Ayrton’s departure, while expected, leaves a void filled with a bittersweet sense of nostalgia.

You carefully tuck the letter away, deciding to keep it as a memento of a night that has transformed your life in ways you haven’t yet fully understood. The money, though practical, is secondary to the emotional significance of the letter and the night you shared.

Then, about a month later, something happens that will change everything. You begin to feel unwell—persistent nausea, fatigue, and an odd sensitivity to smells that hadn’t bothered you before. At first, you dismiss it as stress or perhaps a lingering flu. But when the symptoms don’t subside, you decide to visit a doctor.

Sitting in the sterile, white-walled clinic, you fidget nervously, your mind racing with possibilities. The doctor, a kind woman in her forties, conducts the examination and then asks you to wait while she runs some tests. The minutes tick by slowly, each one filled with growing anxiety.

When the doctor returns, she has a gentle expression on her face, one that conveys both understanding and seriousness. “Mrs Y/L/N” she begins softly, “I have some news for you. You’re pregnant.”

The words hit you like a freight train. Pregnant. You’re pregnant with Ayrton Senna’s child. The reality of it all is overwhelming. You sit there in stunned silence, your mind reeling as you try to process the enormity of what you’ve just heard. The news is a shock, and your mind races with questions and uncertainties. The reality of raising a child, especially one conceived during a brief encounter with someone as famous as Ayrton Senna, is daunting. You grapple with the implications of your situation, trying to come to terms with the fact that you will be raising a child on your own.

#f1 #ayrton senna #ayrton senna x reader #idk how to tag this #as12 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula 1 #classic f1

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