#canadian car scene

[rabbitcruiser]

Alaska Highway, CDN (No. 1)

The Alaska Highway (French: Route de l'Alaska; also known as the, Alaska-Canadian Highway, or ALCAN Highway) was constructed during World War II to connect the contiguous United States to Alaska across Canada. It begins at the junction with several Canadian highways in Dawson Creek, British Columbia, and runs to Delta Junction, Alaska, via Whitehorse, Yukon. When it was completed in 1942, it was about 2,700 kilometres (1,700 mi) long, but in 2012, it was only 2,232 km (1,387 mi). This is due to the realignments of the highway over the years, which has rerouted and straightened many sections. The highway opened to the public in 1948. Once legendary for being a rough, challenging drive, the highway is now paved over its entire length. Its component highways are British Columbia Highway 97, Yukon Highway 1, and Alaska Route 2.

Source: Wikipedia

[wearebarca]

1. Captured // Alexia Putellas x Original character

Part 1 part 2 part 3

synopsis: Rosalie has never stayed too long at the same place. When the opportunity of a lifetime presents itself critical moment in her life, the photographer decides to once again leave behind what she knows and joins the staff of Europe's best football team.

word count: 3,5K

18 + (eventually)

A/N: Hello, Spanish is from google translate so please be nice. French is my first language so all should be good on that part. Enjoy.

Her fingers were hovering over the multitudes of cameras lined up in the bookcase of her small living room. The balcony doors were opened and the cool night air filtered in the little apartment, along with the chants and cheers of the sea of supporters passing in the streets below. Nights like these had quickly become her favourite since moving to the heart of Barcelona. She would usually sit on the balcony and watch as the supporters would celebrate their club's win, filling the night air with happiness and excitement but tonight was slightly different though. An important match was currently being disputed at the Johan Cruyff Estadi, one that all the Barcelona Femini fans were looking forward to all year. El Classico was always an electric night and Rosalie had decided to experience this night out in the streets, instead of the comfort of her balcony chair.

Once out in the streets, She was immediately hit by a wave of excitement. She was instantly  swept in a sea of chanting people, all wearing jerseys and scarves with their team's logo. The crowd was so dense that all you could see were flashes of red and blue making the task of focusing on one subject a difficult one. She finally managed to exit the crowd and find a bench near a bus stop, high enough to have a clear view of the scene unfolding in front of her. This new vantage point allowed you to take numerous portraits of fans, capturing groups of friends in the middle of drunken laughs and barça chants. She instantly knew when the final whistle was blown and Barcelona had won the match. Excited screams could be heard all around and the ground was slightly shaking from the people jumping around in an ecstatic frenzy. Rosalie lowered her camera and took a moment to soak it all in. These were the moments that reminded her of why she had chosen sports photography as her career. This feeling of unity between fans, the shared excitement and hope as well as the solidarity displayed among the supporters even during darker times. Sports was something that brought people together, made them temporarily forget about their lives. She considered herself lucky to have a job that allowed her to capture such moments. 

Once back in the safety of her apartment, she plugged her camera to her computer and while the shots she took were transferring into her laptop. She pulled out the wine bottle that was already opened and sat on her couch. Next to her was a pile of clothes that consisted of her vintage oversized brown leather jacket, a tight black t-shirt and dark brown pleated pants. She had specifically picked out this outfit for her first day in her new job. Her camera bag sat next to the pile, only her laptop missing. Everything was ready, perfectly organized, almost obsessively. The stress of this new beginning was keeping her up which led the young woman to work on the shots she had taken during the night until she fell asleep in her living room. 

The drive to the training stadium wasn’t too long. She had left incredibly early to avoid traffic and ended up parking her car at the stadium and walking around the block. It wasn’t long until she stumbled upon a small cafe, not too far from the training center. The place looked cosy and inviting with all the plants and the picture frames. Upon a closer look, she noticed that they were all pictures of what she guest was regulars enjoying their coffees. The thought of so much history hanging on these walls made the French-Canadian smile as she went to stand in line to order. 

 Her Spanish was rather shaky which made the barista and the woman behind her chuckle lightly. But nonetheless she managed to order and pay without going completely red from embarrassment.  

“Americano para Rosalie” The french name sounds so foreign when spoken in the language and Rosalie almost felt bad for the barista and made a note to herself to use her spanish nickname when ordering in the future. 

 She picked up her coffee and as she was turning around to exit the small shop, her body collided with a solid one, making her spill half of her own coffee on herself. 

“oh Déu, ho sento, estàs bé?”

A tattooed had grabbed her elbow in an attempt to stabilize her, but the damage was done. The cup that was previously secured in her hand had spilled more than half of its content on her shirt and bag.  the tattooed woman turn to her partner “ Ingrid can you grab napkins please” 

She immediately took the napkins that were handed to her and started to dab at her bag in an attempt to prevent the liquid from seeping in and mess with her equipment. Busy trying to dry the coffee that had fallen on her work bag, Rosalie had failed to notice who exactly had bumped into her, but the names mentioned during her short encounter were oddly familiar. “ Are you ok? Did any get in your bag?” A tall dark haired woman was standing right in front of you with a worried smile and Rosalie could not believe her luck. She simply shook her head and smiled at the Norwegian while throwing the napkins away. 

“ I’m Ingrid, we’re very sorry about this, Maria’s a little clumsy.” She laughed at her own statement, knowing very well that “ a little” was a bit of an understatement. 

“ It’s ok, I can’t say that I was really looking where I was going” Rosalie said as she followed Ingrid outside the cafe to a small table near the entrance.  The Spanish woman exited the shop shortly after them with a tray with four cups of coffee. 

“ Asked the barista for your order, here you go.” The Spanish woman said with an apologetic smile on her lips. 

“ Thank you, you didn’t have to do that”

“ It was only fair since this one can’t be bothered to be aware of the world around her” she said, giving a playful glare to her partner. 

“ I’m Mapi, .” . 

“Oh I know who you are,” she said with a smile on her face. She wasn’t new to the football world, having played all the way to her college years. After graduation, she had gotten herself a job as an assistant photographer in  the  NWSL in America. She had travelled all around the United-States and became one of the best known sports photographers. Three years into the job, Rosalie received a call that would change her career forever.

Arsenal W.F.C was desperately looking to revamp its image and put the club on the map. Management had come across some of Rosalie’s dynamic shots and had contacted her to offer her a spot in the new media team that would follow the girls around during the season. Seeing this as the opportunity of a lifetime, she moved across the ocean. This was the opportunity of a lifetime and she absolutely loved it. She had built her strongest friendships over there, had fallen even more in love with job and football, but also experienced her most gut wrenching heartbreak. After her breakup, she had stayed with the team to finish her contract and then packed her flat without knowing what she would do next. She knew that going back toArsenal would not be a good idea since she would have to see the face of the woman that had broken her trust everyday, so she gave her notice and left a month to go hiking in Andalucia. It would be during this trip that she would get the call from FC Barcelona Femini. She would accept on the spot and after a quick apartment search she would have all her belongings shipped to her new address and fly straight to Barcelona, without anyone knowing about her new beginning. 

“ Sorry that came out a little strong,  I’m Rosalie Marineau, Barça’s new photographer.” She shook both their hands and started the few blocks walk towards the training facility.

“ Oh it is a pleasure to meet you, we were wondering when the new photographer would start. We were all excited after seeing some of your work with Arsenal, very impressive.” 

“Thank you so much but I should be the one who’s excited, it truly is an honour to work with such a strong and dedicated team Like Barça, I really can’t wait to start.” the woman said with a beaming smile. The walk back to the stadium was filled with conversation about the upcoming season, Rosalie's career and even strayed to her college football career. As the group reached the entrance of the training grounds, a voice made itself heard in the hallway. 

“ustedes chicas llegan tarde” A tall blond was leaning against the wall right next to the locker room door. She was wearing the gray half zip training shirt with matching shorts and her hair loose, fanning over her shoulders. Her arms were crossed, her boots in one hand and a stern expression was plastered on her face. In her mind, there was no way that this woman was not the captain of this team and indeed, a few moments later, Rosalie was standing face to face with Alexia Putellas. 

“ Quince minutos antes no significa tarde, Ale” The sigh that left the Catalonian’s lips was long and the look that came with the sound would make anyone shrink right on the spot. She propped herself up and with even sparing a glance in the direction of the photographer, she turned around and entered the locker room. 

“Maria, you might want to follow her, you don’t want her getting worse.” Ingrid said, pushing her girlfriend towards the same door the blond had previously disappeared in. The Spanish woman let out a sigh of her own before also disappearing into the room. “ Come with me, I’ll show you to the management's office.”

As Rosalie had predicted, her morning was all about paperwork officializing her new position as the head of the photography department. Ingrid ended up staying the whole time and even offered to show her to her new office. The office was located on the second floor of the building, which seemed a lot calmer than the lower level. Upon entering the office, Rosalie was surprised by how spacious the place was. The space was divided into two sections. The first had all the proper equipment at her disposal to hold photoshoots. Everything was brand new and of the highest quality, with some of the equipment still wrapped in their boxes. The second was closest to the windows, which gave a perfect view of the pitch, and was  half hidden behind screens to give the feeling of being in a completely different room. A desk with two large screens and a laptop launchpad, a comfortable looking chair and a small sofa occupied the space. 

A big smile was playing on Rosalie’s lips as she took in the space she would now work in. “ I hope you will feel right at home here.” Jonatan ​​Giràldez said as he came to stand beside the photographer. “ You can set up if you’d like, I’ll send someone to collect you so you can meet the team before lunch.” He said, once again extending his hand for her to shake. “ Welcome to the family, Senorita Marineau.” 

After a quick hug from Ingrid and a promise to talk more later, Rosalie pulled out her laptop and took a seat at her new desk. Looking out at the pitch she found the two women she was hoping to see. During her contract with Arsenal, she was asked to follow some of the players to the Lionesses camp to capture their journey. That’s where she had met her closest friends. When she met Keira Walsh, it was like something in the universe clicked. The rest of the England squad used to joke that the two of them were the same person but in different fonts, and they might as well have been right. The two women had the same awkward sense of humour and were able to guest what the other needed or wanted with having to express anything. 

Upon meeting the younger French-Canadian woman, Lucy Bronze had immediately felt a strong feeling of protectiveness. This feeling grew even more when one night the Canadian woman had shared with their small friend group that she wasn’t close to her family.  Maybe it was because she knew that the girl had nobody to count on, in England or even in her home country, but the woman started to treat the younger brunette like she was part of her family. She was like a big sister to Rosalie and loved the girl fiercely. The couple had become Rosalie’s family during her years in London, but the distance made it hard for them to see each other outside of camps. Still the girls kept in touch regularly and had facetime movie nights on a weekly basis. They were in fact the first ones Rosalie had told about her move, and she would be lying if one of the big reasons why she accepted so fast was because she knew her two best friends were playing for this team. 

Setting up her stuff wasn’t long. She had brought a few picture frames, mainly pictures of her, Lucy and Keira, of her, Beth, Viv, Leah and Lia, her closest Arsenal friends, that she put on her desk and plugged her camera and laptop to the screens. She still had about an hour and a half before lunch so she decided to finish editing the pictures from the night before. 

She knew someone was making their way towards her office just by the sound of football boots on the hard floors. Still, too engrossed in her work, Rosalie did not lift her head until a very familiar voice spoke. 

“You know, if you missed us this much, you could’ve called instead of stalking us all the way here.” She could recognize that strong northern accent anywhere. Leaning against her door frame, in the same training kit that Alexia was wearing, Lucy was smiling brightly at her friend. The smile on Rosalie’s face lit up the whole room and warmed up the English woman’s heart. It had been a while since she had seen her friend with a genuine smile on her face. She almost tumbled over trying to catch the smaller woman who had jumped in her arms. 

“Shouldn’t you be training?” A quick look behind her showed the pitch empty. 

“Everyone is in the gym, we figured we’d come get you to meet everyone now.” She said dragging the girl out of her office.

“Wait a minute,” she made a beeline to her office to grab the usb key containing the picture she wanted to give the media team and followed the woman out in the corridor. 

“How are you settling here? You know, we feel bad about not helping you move.” Rosalie understood perfectly well why Keira and Lucy weren’t able to come give her a hand. With the away games, training and media duty, the women were swarmed and didn’t get a minute to themselves. Still, the lack of extra pairs of arms and someone to push her meant that a lot of boxes remained untouched. 

“Don’t worry, I’m good.” She said with a small smile. By the look the older woman was giving her, Rosalie knew that her little lie didn’t go through. But Lucy chose to drop the subject knowing that pestering her friend was not the way to go in this situation. 

“I'll show you around the training center but first, everyone is in the gym so we can start there.” She said walking ahead of the brunette. “ The trainers wanted you to know that you have access to it whenever you want and if you'd like they can help you with your training.” 

“ What do you mean?” The French-Canadian was confused as she caught up with the taller woman. 

“ Well… when the news of your arrival came out, people started to ask questions. They found out who you were through management and they apparently told the girls to talk to us because we knew you.” Lucy said in an apologetic tone. She knew that even though her friend was well known in her field, she liked to keep her life private. “ We didn’t say much, don't worry, but we have some grade A stalkers in this team.” 

“ Oh mon dieu ,what did they find?” The brunette said, hiding her face behind her hands. She didn’t have anything crazy on her social media, but she did have a couple pictures from her college football career that looked a little weird along with some pictures of her races, triathlons and marathons that were surely not her best angles. 

“ Everything darling,” Lucy said laughing, “ They especially loved the beach pictures and the triathlon ones, you made quite the impression, Frenchy.” 

The girl could not be more mortified. Those pictures were not bad. In fact, she was quite proud of them, but it was the fact that the whole team had seen her in her bikini or dying during a race before actually meeting her. She simply wasn’t a fan of the fact that they knew so much already.  But then, it was only fair, she thought, since their whole lives were plastered in tabloïds and discussed in social media all the time. The difference was that the photographer had never been in their position.

Lucy chose this exact moment to open the door leading to the gym and Rosalie’s ears were instantly flooded with rapid spanish banter and that freshly cut grass smell that she loved. The room was extremely bright due to the fact that it had direct access to the pitch, which meant that a slight breeze from the outside kept the gym cool and fresh. Almost every station was occupied by players, sometimes alone, but mostly in pairs. The first one to notice their arrival was none other than Mapi, who was helping a certain captain keeping her balance on a platform. She waved excitedly which caused the blond to lose balance and almost fall to her face. The look she sent the Zaragozian would have scared anyone in their right mind. When she realized that her look didn’t get the reaction it deserved she turned her gaze to the source of her training partner’s distraction,  only to lock eyes with the photographer. 

The contact didn’t not last long since the commotion had caught everyone’s attention. They quickly formed a half circle around the girl, seemingly waiting for her to say a few words. 

“ hola,” Rosalie wasn’t a shy person but she was definitely intimidated by the women in front of her. A smile from the couple that she had met in the morning was the little push she needed to continue. “ My name is Rosalie Marineau and I am Barça’s new head photographer. I am very excited to work with all of you. " she said smiling "Don’t worry, I’ll always get your best angle.” 

Smiles filled the room and everyone stepped forward to introduce themselves. The first to reach the woman was Mariona who shook her hand and welcomed her. Next were Patri and Pina who both looked like over excited children. They both gave the girl hugs and started to ask different questions only to be pulled away by Irene and Aitana. The taller woman had a warm smile and a very calm demeanor that instantly made Rosalie feel at ease with her. The smaller woman pulled her in a hug and asked her about her  move and how she was settling in this new city.  

A voice she knew all too well interrupted the conversation and arms wrapped around the photographer from behind. As soon as she smelled the familiar perfume, the Canadian spun around and wrapped her arms around her best friend. “ Hello Frenchy''

Keira didn’t let go of the woman and gave an apologetic smile to the two Spanish players who smiled and left, understanding that this was a private reunion. “ I had to fight Lucy to go get you but the old hag still has some spunk in her.” 

The comment made Rosalie laugh and pull away without letting go completely of her friend. At this moment, Lucy arrived next to the blond and gave her a small shove. “ I heard that.”

A few other players came to introduce themselves but Keira and Lucy stayed by the brunette’s side. When the last of the girls left, the photographer turned to her friends only to see them looking over her shoulders. 

“ Hola, I don’t think we have been introduced” 

The photographer turned around swiftly only to freeze on the spot at the woman before her. Words seemed to escape her as her lips parted but no words came out. Alexia Putellas was a woman with a commanding presence and piercing eyes. She towered over the photographer by a few inches  and even with a polite smile on her face, she held herself with a confidence that would make anyone shrink beside her. A sharp elbow in her ribs shook up the girl and prompted her to finally speak.

“ Oui, Bonjour mademoiselle,”

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1973 Dodge Monaco

On this date, August 7th, in 1980, "The Blues Brothers" was released.

"It's got a cop motor, a 440-cubic-inch plant. It's got cop tires, cop suspension, cop shocks. It's a model made before catalytic converters so it'll run good on regular gas."

The film used 13 different cars bought at auction from the California Highway Patrol to depict the retired 1974 Mount Prospect, Illinois Dodge Monaco patrol car that would affectionately become known as The Bluesmobile. The vehicles were outfitted by the studio to do particular driving chores; some were customized for speed and others for jumps, depending on the scene. For the large car chases, filmmakers purchased 60 police cars at $400 each, and most were destroyed at the completion of the filming. More than 40 stunt drivers were hired, and the crew kept a 24-hour body shop to repair cars.

According to Dan Aykroyd, the horn-shaped loudspeaker atop the Bluesmobile was actually a duplicate of a massive Cold War-era air raid siren (CLM Model 92729DP) installed in the schoolyard at Our Lady of Annunciation where Aykroyd attended elementary school while growing up in Ottawa, Canada. The siren was manufactured by a Canadian company called CLM Industries, and Aykroyd specifically requested the same CLM model be used in the movie to portray the loudspeaker the characters affixed to the top of the Bluesmobile and used as a public address system.

Director John Landis has claimed that the portion of the final chase sequence beneath the elevated train tracks, which briefly showed a reading of 118 miles per hour on the car's speedometer, was actually filmed at that speed, a testament to the Monaco's police car heritage. He has also stated that he re-shot some of the scenes with pedestrians on the sidewalks, so viewers could see that the film had not been sped up to create the effect of speed.

For the scene when the Blues Brothers finally arrive at the Richard J. Daley Center, a mechanic took several months to rig the car to fall apart.

At the time of its release, "The Blues Brothers" held the world record for the most cars destroyed in one film until it was surpassed by a single car in its 1998 sequel. (Wikipedia)

[high-ashell-hargrove]

The odyssey

Wolverine x Deadpool x mutant!Reader

A/n: a short little crack fic because I keep reading fics abt this scene and I wanted to write my own. Not proofread (reader is giving Deadpool vibes because I think that’s funny)

“You halved nut monkey Jesus fuck” i hissed, Logan’s claws digging through my abdomen, the multiverses didn’t lie- this is the worst Wolverine because the mother fucker wouldn’t stop-

“The fuck you call me” his gruff voice rattled out, stabbing through my abdomen again, swiftly my leg lands between his legs, pushing him overtop of me and the seat. My body rolled toward the steering wheel, where wade lay on the hood of the Honda.

“A little help?!” I call yanking one of his katanas out of the holster, sending it through Logan’s chest

“Sorry sweet angle baby cakes this is just so entertaining” wade kicks his feet like a little school girl, chin propped up on his hands.

Without a beat Logan and I send each other looks, pulling the sword from his chest, we both lunge through the already busted windshield pulling wade into the car

“Oh my dream threesome!”

“Shut the fuck UP”

________

The hour blurred into hours. I groan, rolling my neck, my eyes squint open, both men knocked out in the back seats. Wade trapped in the many seatbelts and Logan just- passed out. With a scoff I climb out of the car.

I hear a noise from behind me

“Which Canadian is conscious?” Both men start making their snide little comments

“She meant me peanut sorry not sorry”

I whip my head around glaring at the two of them

“I will turn this shit box of a car around and let our universe die!”

It was gonna be- a long, long day.

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 Scenes from the destruction wrought by an Israeli occupation airstrike which targeted a vehicle being driven by 7 foreign aid workers belonging to the World Central Kitchen, killing all inside. Among the dead included foreign citizens of Britain, Poland, and Australia, along with a dual American and Canadian citizen. The aid organization said it had coordinated the movements of its personnel with the Israeli authorities, who knew the vehicle contained humanitarian aid workers.]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🚀🚙💥 🚨

ISRAELI OCCUPATION BOMBS FOREIGN AID WORKERS, CONTINUES BOMBING ACROSS GAZA ON DAY 179 OF GENOCIDE

On the 179th day of "Israel's" ongoing war of genocide in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 7 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 71 Palestinians, mostly women and children, while another 102 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

In the latest occupation atrocity, the Zionist army bombed the vehicle of a group of Foreign aid personnel working for the World Central Kitchen (WCK), killing 7 employees, including 6 foreigners.

"World Central Kitchen is devastated to confirm seven members of our team have been killed in an IDF strike in Gaza," the organization said in a statement on its website.

According to the World Central Kitchen, despite coordinating the organization's movements with the Israeli occupation army, a convoy including two armored cars branded with the WCK logo and one soft-skin vehicle that were carrying the WCK team while it was traveling through a "deconflicted zone" was struck by an Israeli bomb, destroying at least one of the vehicles.

WCK says the team was leaving their Deir al-Balah warehouse, in the central Gaza Strip, where their teams unloaded more than 100 tons of humanitarian food aid brought to Gaza through a maritime route, when the convoy was targeted by Zionist forces.

“This is not only an attack against WCK, this is an attack on humanitarian organizations showing up in the most dire of situations where food is being used as a weapon of war. This is unforgivable,” World Central Kitchen CEO, Erin Gore is quoted as saying.

The seven foreign aid workers killed in the Zionist strike included citizens from Australia, Poland, the United Kingdom, as well as a dual-citizen of the United States and Canada, and one Palestinian.

“I am heartbroken and appalled that we—World Central Kitchen and the world—lost beautiful lives today because of a targeted attack by the IDF. The love they had for feeding people, the determination they embodied to show that humanity rises above all, and the impact they made in countless lives will forever be remembered and cherished,” Erin Gore added.

In response to the International outcry over the atrocity, the Israeli occupation authorities said they will be “carrying out an in-depth examination at the highest levels to understand the circumstances of this tragic incident.”

The World Central Kitchen has suspended its operations in Gaza as a result of the incident.

In yet another atrocity yesterday, the Israeli occupation army bombed the Iranian consulate building in the Syrian capital of Damascus, killing several high-level Iranian officials, including 7 military advisors of Iran's Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC).

In response to the strike, Iranian Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Khamenei said in an announcement issued on Tuesday that the "evil Zionist regime will regret" it's crime of assasinating Iran's military advisors in Syria.

The Iranian leader said that both Brigadier General Mohammad Reza Zahedi, a commander of the IRGC’s Quds Force, and his deputy, General Mohammed Hadi Haji Rahimi were killed in the strike, which targeted the Iranian consulate in Damascus, declaring the crime was perpetrated by the "usurping and dispicable" Zionist regime.

“The evil regime will be punished by our brave men. We will make them regret this crime and other ones, by God's will," the Iranian leader added.

As Israel's crimes spread outside the occupied Palestinian territories and the Gaza Strip, and into the wider West Asian region, the bombing inside Palestine continued unabated.

In just one example, local civil defense crews recovered the bodies of six Palestinians who were killed, including two children, along with a number of wounded civilians, following a Zionist occupation airstrike targeting the Zarub family home, located in the city of Rafah, in the south of the Gaza Strip.

In another atrocity, several Palestinians were killed and a large number wounded after occupation artillery shelling targeted a number of residential buildings in the city of Khan Yunis, also in the south of Gaza, focusing artillery fire on the eastern and central parts of the city.

Meanwhile, Zionist warplanes bombed the al-Bashir Mosque, in the city of Deir al-Balah, in the central Gaza Strip, martyring a several civilians, including the death of at least one child, and wounding at least 20 others, while also dealing significant damage to neighboring residential buildings.

Similarly, Zionist fighter jets fired several missiles that slammed into two residential homes in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City, while occupation artillery shelling targeted the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood, along with the Sheikh Ajlin neighborhood, martyring three civilians and wounding six others.

Over the last day, as the Zionist occupation army withdrew from the Al-Shifa Medical Complex, located in the Al-Rimal neighborhood of Gaza City, which had been the largest and most well-equipped hospital in the entire Gaza Strip, a scene of mass destruction and carnage was revealed, with hundreds of bodies littering the hospital grounds, including some bodies discovered with handcuffed wrists, having been extra-judicially executed in cold-blood.

Among the bodies recovered from Al-Shifa were doctors and healthcare personnel, along with entire Palestinian families, which the Gaza Media Office says were just a small part of the roughly 400 citizens that were killed in two weeks of fighting near the hospital.

About another 900 Palestinians were arrested or detained by Zionist forces under suspicion of belonging to Resistance groups, while the Hospital buildings themselves were nearly completely destroyed, blown to pieces and left as scorched shells by the American bombs dropped on them by the Israeli occupation army.

As a result of "Israel's" ongoing war of genocide in the Gaza Strip, the infinitely rising death toll has now exceeded 32'916 Palestinians killed, more than 25'000 of which being among women and children, while an additional 75'494 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression beginning on October 7th, 2023.

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#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

[glasskey]

Nick & June's Mix tape Vol. 3

With volume 3 comes the battle for Holly, separation and the unveiling of painful secrets. Season 3 was notoriously poor to our 2 lovers with June becoming seriously twitchy without Nick, Hannah or Holly. Gilead is Hell.

What Are You Good For?

Love in Gilead is less than ideal. One day you’re dreaming about a beautiful beach with your beloved and the next he’s been promoted to Top Boy at the local horror show. Granted he looks great in the suit but Nick doesn’t seem to like the new tie, grabbing at it like the tightening noose that it actually is. Fred was obviously pissed about the baby snatching and his “reward” for Nick was to arrange a promotion complete with a quick trip to the front, undoubtedly to die.

I’ve often said that Nick sometimes DOES listen to his better angels and sometimes he takes the easy way out. Granted it’s difficult he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, but when June asks him to take the high road, hightailing it with her and Hannah for the border, and he doesn’t, it earns him a brutal verbal slap.

“What are you good for?” she demands and I was instantly reminded of S1 when June confronted him with his lowly aspirations: “Is this it? You’re just gonna polish his car and once in a while get a Handmaid pregnant?” In both of these moments Blaine looks deeply shamed, June has shown him that while she loves him she’s also acutely aware of his shortcomings.

It’s a justified blow to his ego, particularly given his newly acquired power and his reluctance to use it for good. As she demonstrates her willingness to risk so much more for freedom, he’s left feeling like a small and suitably chided man, instead of the patriarchal Gilead’s new Big Commander. “You’ll get killed” June says with a cold finality as he tells her that he’s been sent to the front, confronting him with the reality that his unquestioning loyalty to Gilead will now surely cost him his life. It’s madness.

This is one of the only scenes where Nick and June are not depicted in a glowing light, it’s difficult to ignore that Nick is now almost swallowed by the shadows. Over the last 2 seasons, they’ve become one another’s beacon of joy and hope and there’s a palpable air of desolation and sorrow here, as these two bid each other goodbye, possibly forever. The camera reveals Nick and June divided by a wall, Nick unwilling to leave her, his back literally pinned to the wall by the heavy weight of Gilead.

June opens the door, gently reaches around, sensing him waiting, somehow their hands finding one another and she leads him out of the dark hallway and back into her room. Doors often represent entrances to other worlds and here we see June reach across the divide to return him to her side, once again. The lock snaps shut signalling an almost unheard of privacy. There’s a sense of finality in it too, as though it may be the last time these two see sanctuary for a long time, if ever again. It’s no more than 10 seconds of screen time and yet it encapsulates their relationship so perfectly. Nick constantly waiting in the shadows, bound by duty, and June always reaching across the divide to bring him in from the cold.

Nice Girl Like You in A Place Like This

The DC episode ranks right up there with the Boston Globe episode as one of the most important and insightful for this entire series. In Ep 6 June witnesses for the first time the absolute devastation this dictatorship has unleashed on her countries seat of power. Fittingly Fred has selected new wave DC as the location to construct his own personal piece of propaganda in an attempt to force the Canadians to hand Nicole back. June’s depicted glowering with vast angel wings, a monolith of power and holy vengeance. In the middle of Fred’s little directorial debut, Nick strolls in and June does the trademark jaw drop. Fred wants to know what he’s doing there, after all he had arranged for him to be shipped off to the front after the whole holding him at gun point / baby napping thing. Despite Fred’s best efforts though, it seems that not only does Blaine continue to breath, but he’s also shown up to visit his girlfriend.

Now if you thought Blaine looked good in a suit, wait till you see him draped in long, dark, tailor made, hotness. It’s obvious there’s a new kind of swagger to him and as he steps up next to June he brushes her hand and drops the line “Nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” It’s a line lifted from a Scorsese film of the same name and Blaine’s used it to flirtatiously lighten the intensely grim mood. He knows DC is Hell but he also knows June is anything but a “Nice Girl”, she blushes barely containing a smile and he smirks.

Fred and Serena can’t help but notice it and Fred’s seething with jealousy. There’s a close shot of Serena’s false finger clenching, a sign of the love lost between her and Fred, that contrasts directly against Nick and June’s hand brushing. Exchanges between Fred and Nick reek of power and control. Fred directs Nick to do his bidding, maneuvering him across the stage and verbally leashing him by calling him son, once again reducing him to a subordinate. Fred makes June kneel down for the camera, and Blaine looks away unable to watch. Unbeknownst to Fred, this will be the last time he ever exercises this type of control over Blaine.

This is Your One Chance

Here we got our epic movie moment for the series, It was like Gone with the Wind and Dr Zhivago all rolled up into one big romantic snow globe. June runs out to meet Nick her hair and cape fluttering behind her freely, a stark contrast to the DC handmaids brutally silenced. It demonstrates the freedom she feels he brings her. Nick, however seems to want nothing to do with June’s gamble on the Swiss that involves him laying his neck on the line and entwining himself in yet another Governments manoeuvrings for power. I, for one could hardly blame him; the last time he got involved with politics he ended up in the bottomless pit that is Gilead and he’s been unsuccessfully digging his way out ever since.

Add to this the fact that the last time he tried to help June, a multitude of people risked their lives and most certainly died, and you have one understandably reluctant Commander. But he’s helpless, she forces him to look in her eyes, tears streaming down her face and tells him that it’ll be his one opportunity to truly show his love and fealty for his daughter.

Now while some may doubt that Blaine ever showed up to speak with the Swiss, I can guarantee that this little exchange ensured that he did. The fact is, Blaine is a sucker for the loyalty card and once June played it, it was a done deal. Scenes are cut and included for a reason and as we know, in The Handmaid’s Tale, even the smallest scene is there for a reason. Show runners went to the effort of showing Blaine at the embassy being called to give information; he showed up, albeit reluctantly, and despite the fact that it all went sideways, writers still wanted you to know that. Unfortunately the reality is, he just couldn’t face her after it did all go to shit, and as a result he beat a hasty and somewhat cowardly exit to the front.

He knew the Swiss would soon tell her he’d been part of the Sons of Jacob who’d been integral to the inception of Gilead, something he’d kept hidden from her for some time now, and she’d be suitably mortified. June IS devastated, she looks out on the glowing playroom once filled with happy children that lies noticeably empty and silent. It reflects her isolation and sense of abandonment; perhaps the family she envisioned with Blaine was just a fantasy.

DC was an episode designed to illustrate the total destruction of all of our personal and societal freedoms under Gilead. To properly demonstrate this writers pulled the rip cord on any emotional support June may have previously had, this included breaking her and Serena up and having Nick leave her somewhat high and dry. It was essential to illustrate Nick was manipulated and part of the Gilead machine from the beginning. It was difficult to watch, given his devotion, but from the moment I saw him cloaked from head to foot in black, practically swallowed by his uniform, I knew it was inevitable that at least for now, Gilead pulled the strings.

In our next 2 Nick and June Mix tapes I’ll be covering Season 4, which was somewhat kinder to the Osblaine fans. Back soon.

[somethingsomethingwords]

Hello everybody. Long time no see, but it's been one of those months, you know. This was something I've been thinking about for a while, but I only finished it because of @nico-di-genova. So this is for you honey.

As always thanks to everyone for reading. Enjoy 💜

Everything was going great. Fernando was at a party, where people were drinking and having fun. All around him, the younger drivers were finally decompressing, enjoying the alcohol, the food and the company.

At the center of the sea of people, there was the brightest star of the night.

Lance had finally won a race, and he was celebrating as loudly as he could, sandwiched between Esteban and Mick.

He envied the joy written all over their faces, and how close they were.

He loved the sport, even after his fake retirement, even after all those years, but there was something about maiden wins that still no other win could recreate.

Jóder, soy tan viejo was thinking Nando, when someone tapped his shoulder.

"I think it's late enough, no?" asked Pierre, and it really was getting late, and the trio seemed to be losing energy.

"Yeah, sounds about right. How about we split them? I'm taking Mick, and you take your teammates?" said Lewis, already stepping towards the boys.

Pierre started following him, muttering some curses that would have made blush a sailor. Nando snorted at the scene, and looked as the Brit took the German, while the French men started bickering.

The Canadian was looking around, confused after losing his partners in crime, but then he turned towards Fernando and smiled, slowly making his way towards the Spanish.

"Hola Lancito. Want to go?" asked Nando, seeing the younger man swinging slightly on his feet.

"I lost Estie and Mickie. Où sont-ils?"

Half drunk out of his mind, and he was still worried about his friends. Lance's loyalty really knew no bounds.

"They're ok, with Lewis and Pierre. I will take you home." and with that, he placed his hand on the younger's lower back.

The reaction was immediate. Lance's whole body shivered and pressed against his side, lowering his head on the shorter man's shoulder.

"Too loud. Je veux du silence"

"Oui mon amour. Let's go somewhere quiet" his French was heavily accented, but Lance seemed satisfied enough.

Nando guided the other man to his car, and drove them to their shared hotel, while Lance napped with his face against the window and his neck in a weird position.

When they arrived, Fernando struggled a little to wake the other enough to put him vertically in the elevator and walk to his room. At the door, Lance refused to lean against the doorframe, and settled only when he was hugging Fernando. "Warm" was the only word he said.

"Lance, I need the key"  Fernando spoke softly.

"Poche" just answered the taller man, with no visible intention to loosen the embrace.

Fernando tried to be respectful, and to not feel the solid curve pressed against his hand. He soon found the key in his back pocket, and opened the door.

Once they were both in, he quickly realised that Lance would not move further, so he just put him on the bed, and went to take a glass and fill it with water.

Returning to the bedroom, he found Lance half naked.

"Where are your pants?" he asked, voice an octave too high, almost dropping the glass, before setting it on a nightstand.

"Lost them. Too hot" he shrugged.

Then, even more bafflingly, he started giggling.

"What is now?" he asked, fondly looking as Lance tried to take off his shirt without opening a single button. He succeeded, but his hair was now a fluffy mess.

"You remind me of Nano"

The use of his nickname surprised Fernando. The younger man refused using it, always sticking with his full name. Then the absurdity of it all hit him, and he started giggling as well.

"Ah, sì? How so?"

He was getting curious, sue him.

"It's your voice. It's soft and warm. Would listen for hours"

Fernando wasn't expecting this answer, but it melted his heart anyway.

"Mhhh. Then want a bedtime story?"

Any more time spent with Lance was a gift and a surprise wrapped in wonder. He was not going to deny himself this experience, even only for blackmail reasons. Jokingly, he was done with mind games and tricks. He would never do them again, especially not against Lance.

"Nah. A secret"

"A secret, mh? Let's trade. You tell me, I tell you" if Fernando was going to indulge him, at least it was going to be funny.

"Ça va...Ah, oui, daccord, j'en ai un. I like him so much" and then started giggling again.

Fernando felt like all of his body had gone stone cold, and couldn't move a muscle. He couldn't believe what the other told him. But before he could say anything, Lance nestled in the sheets, and softly said while closing his eyes:

"I like him soooooo much, even if he doesn't feel the same. It's ok, don't think I'd deserve him. What we have, it's special. It is enough"

And with this, he was done for the day.

And he wasn't the only one. Fernando felt like he was going to explode, too many thoughts in his head and words on his tongue, with no one to talk to. He could feel his hair turning gray.

But a single look to that peaceful face, and his heart stopped beating erratically. Everything was going to be alright. They could face this together.

This and more, hopefully.

They were going to solve this tangled mess, but first they both needed to rest.

So he left a note for Lance, simply writing "Call me in the morning. -FA" on a piece of paper and leaving it on top of Lance's phone, where he was sure the other man would see it, and then he left the room, dreaming of his own bed and a restful night of sleep.

---

He was never going to win another GP ever again, if the results were the pounding headache and the rancid taste in his mouth.

He slowly opened his eyes, careful of the half opened blinds, and looked around.

Thanks to some sort of divine intervention, he had made it to the hotel safe and sound.

He got up and went to the bathroom, peeing, washing his face and brushing his teeth.

When he came back to the bedroom, he started looking for his phone. He almost missed it, but then noticed it was just half covered by a yellow post-it. It simply said "Call me in the morning. -FA".

Ok, so he probably would have to thank Fernando for making it to his bed unscathed. He tried to think about the night before, especially trying to remember his interaction with the Spanish driver.

At first, he couldn't remember anything out of the ordinary, then it hit him.

An echo of his own giggle, soft brown eyes, the whisper of a "like him so much".

Oh, no.

Oh no.

He had done it. He confessed, and now Fernando was going to be overly amused about it. Or overly nice, and Lance didn't know what was worse.

Rejection was always a bitch, but basically having to live with your unrequited crush for 24 week-ends? That was going to be a nightmare to go through for all parts involved.

Or maybe just for Lance, with his stupid feelings and his too-hopeful heart.

Ugh, Lance just didn't know what to do.

On one hand, he wanted to call Fernando and be done with all of this. On the other, he wanted to pretend nothing happened, and everything was fine and normal and good.

He sighed, because deep down he knew he was going to have to talk with Fernando, if he liked it or not.

Ok, let's analyze. He knows I like him, and still wants to talk to me. So, he is going to reject me kindly, at least. Ok, we can totally take it like champs. Basic rule still applied: no tears in front of him. It should be quick and painless. Ok, we can do this.

So he took his time in the shower, and ordered a healthy if slightly generous breakfast.

When he was done, he brushed his teeth, wore his comfort hoodie and left his room in a controlled chaos.

One mess at a time: first his love life, then his room.

He knew that Fernando's room was the one across from his, so he didn't even bother calling. He simply knocked.

When the door opened, Lance was sure he had hit his head badly the night before. Maybe the possible concussion and heavy hepatic failure led him to an early grave.

But if death meant he could get to see a still semi-wet Nando, covered just by a tiny towel low on his hips, well, he lived a rich and full life, if a little short.

He could feel himself staring, but also couldn't take his eyes off the view.

He just waited for the self-combustion to take him.

Then he heard a light chuckle, and a hand gently gripped his sleeve, pulling him inside.

When the subject of his awe turned his back on him, walking to the adjacent kitchenette, his brain seemed to be back online.

He shook his head and closed the door behind himself like a particularly stupid rabbit that voluntarily enters the den of a particularly fascinating fox.

Fernando must have known how nervous he was feeling, because he gave him a glass of water and led him to the couch.

"Wait here, I'll be right back" said the Spanish man, leaving Lance alone, stunned and with the glass still in his hand.

You're being ridiculous, grow a pair and just talk like the adult you supposedly are, a voice in his head that sounded like his sister's gently scolded him.

He drank the water while waiting, and felt slightly better.

When Fernando re-entered the room, calm and collected and clothed, Lance waited until he was seated before looking him in the eyes and starting speaking.

"Thank you for last night. For bringing me here safely, I mean"

Not the smoother transition ever, but Fernando had to be used to how stilted he sounded, and would appreciate it anyway.

"No need to. We are friends, no?" he asked with something in his eyes that Lance couldn't describe, but that made him want to talk more.

"About that... I also wanted to say sorry if I said something weird yesterday"

See Chloe? He was actually talking about things that embarrassed him instead of forever avoiding them. Well, not really being super specific, but small progress was still progress.

"Hmm... And what are you referring to?"

The bastard was actually going to make him say the words. Well, in for a penny...

"That I like you"

Lance could feel his cheeks heating up and could no longer stand Fernando's gaze, so he moved his eyes until he was watching a particularly boring patch of carpet.

"Lance, look at me"

It only took those four words, spoken in a tone so gentle and warm to bring Lance's eyes back to Fernando's.

"Why are you apologizing? Did you lie?" he asked softly.

"No" he half shouted, and then flinched because of the reaction. "No, I do like you" he said, exhaling.

"Then what are you apologizing for?"

Fernando could be soft when he wanted, but that didn't stop him from being stubborn.

"I didn't want to offend you" and also didn't want you to really know, because it's embarrassing and you deserve better and I can't be normal about this nor you.

He didn't say the words, but Fernando must have been able to hear them anyway, because he responded firmly.

"You didn't"

That lifted a huge weight from Lance's shoulders. Maybe this partnership could still be saved.

"Ok. Good, I'm glad" he was being awkward and subtly twisting his fingers. But nothing escaped Fernando's attention.

Seeing how the younger man was spiralling in his own thoughts, he didn't hesitate, reaching out to him and taking a hold of his hands.

"There is no need to be nervous. Just tell me again, tell me properly"

Lance could see in his eyes the want and the patience and something else.

They were in this together, he suddenly realised.

You are not alone anymore, said his mental Chloe.

He inhaled as much air as he could, held it and then exhaled. He found the strength he needed in a pair of brown eyes that were already looking in his own.

"I've been wanting to tell you for so long. I like you. I like how you drive, how you give feedback on the car and how you are always, no matter what, the best. But that's just racing stuff. I like how you compliment me, how you never made me feel less than, or just a spoiled kid, how you make me feel. But those are selfish reasons. I like how kind you are with kids, how ready you are to help any of the other drivers. But most importantly, I like you, Fernando Alonso, two times world champion, menace on and off track, mentor and teammate and friend and so much more. I like you, Nando"

He barely finished talking that there was a pair of lips on his own, soft and warm and gentle.

He realised he closed his eyes only when he opened them, and in front was Fernando, bright and shining and perfect in every way that mattered. To Lance, at least.

"You made me wait a long time, no? Let's not waste anymore" he said before diving in a second kiss that was hot and passionate and demanding.

Fernando broke the kiss and stood up, starting to walk, and Lance could only follow the man leading him towards his bed, and towards a life together.

[kiwisa]

genesis ✩ the harpy

F1 Grid x Fem! F1 Driver! OC

fluff, angst • 5,500 words • series' masterlist

IN WHICH... astrée makes her debut on the track and proceeds to also make history.

Like many other stories, it all started with a mistake. 

✩ March 28, 2021

“Latifi crashed after taking Bahrain’s tightest corner too fast! He lost control of his rear axle which sent the rest of the car in a violent spin! And — oh god — he just hit the wall!”

...

“For the moment, no news from Latifi. The red flag has been raised.”

...

... 

“The drivers are gradually returning to the pits while the rescue services are still trying to get the number 6 out of his car. The car was, one could say, literally smashed to pieces after having rolled over a dozen times.”

...

...

...

“According to what I'm told in my earpiece, Latifi is unconscious but breathing. His vital prognosis is not engaged. The race will resume.”

...

“Will the Canadian driver be fit to compete in the Emilia Romagna Grand Prix, which will take place from 16 to 18 April?”

✩ April 2, 2021

And then fell the verdict. 

NICHOLAS LATIFI WITHDRAWN FROM THE 2021 F1 SEASON FOLLOWING HIS ACCIDENT IN BAHRAIN

Astrée watched all this from her flat in Paris, far from the scene of the accident. After the chaos the announcement of her inclusion in the category had been, Williams, its tail between its legs, had decided not to show her on Bahrain’s paddock. 

“We'd rather wait until the storm has calmed down,” came the lame excuse from a communications guy whose name escaped her. Probably Jack or Harry. Some shit like that. 

Thus, far from the warmth of Bahrain, Astrée, like all the other fans, was reduced to a spectator. The tone on how she would be treated during the season seemed to be set.

So, because it was not yet time to show them her true personality, she quietly observed all this panic from the screen of her television: the continuous news, the imprecise answers of the commentators, the worries of the fans, as much for Latifi as for Williams' future. Because after all, everyone knew what that future would look like. There was no uncertainty about it, and that was precisely what the chauvinistic fans feared.

LATIFI'S BAHRAIN ACCIDENT MARKS ASTRÉE IRAKLIDIS' HISTORICAL F1 DEBUT WITH WILLIAMS

To see her come along and disturb what they knew – the male-bondage that the Frenchwoman had broken through – terrified those misogynistic assholes. The tweets spoke for themselves. Astrée had not yet appeared on the paddock and people were already hating her. She almost enjoyed this, laughing heartily at their mediocre insults, at their fear that she almost fed off. 

How she loved to see men cry. There was nothing more beautiful. 

The radical decision to end Nicholas's season sent shockwaves around the world, not so much for the health of the pilot as for the fear of who would replace him. 

Jost Capito's confirmation that “yes, Iraklidis will be in the second Williams car at the Emilia Romagna Grand Prix” was enough to finish off the last survivors of what many on social media nicknamed “The Williams disaster.”

With her eyes fixed on her phone screen, her eyes fixed on her future, Astrée gloated. This accident was the chance of a lifetime: hers. 

She was being offered a year on a silver platter to prove herself and secure a permanent place in this closed Formula 1 clan. Because one thing was certain, Astrée Iraklidis would not remain a reserve driver for another year. At the mere thought of this title, she scoffed. The woman was better than some of those so-called first drivers but, because she had breasts, she was relegated to the background. 

Women were never taken seriously, even though they were just as capable – even more so sometimes – than men. All her life, Astrée had to face these prejudices. Even in 2021, she was still a victim of it. The world would not change. 

“Be a stand-in and shut up,” that is what she had been told, word for word, when she signed that cursed contract. A one-year contract. Renewable, of course, but Astrée knew perfectly well that she was just a publicity stunt, a new toy for the media to play with. Williams would not renew this contract. She knew that for a fact. It was as if her entry into Formula 1 had only been possible because they had first made sure she would leave it just as soon. 

 “All eyes are now on Astrée Iraklidis,” the nasal voice of the sports channel presenter gave her a headache. “A woman in F1 is almost unheard of. I'm curious to see how she will do in the big league. It's bound to be a change for her. It's a far cry from her karting days or Formula 2. If she manages to land herself in P20 instead of a DNF, that will be an achievement on itself. She'll–”

Her knuckles turned white as her fist clenched against the remote control, which she restrained herself from sending into the wall. 

She had no choice. If Astrée wanted to stay, she had to win. Fortunately, that was her speciality, and these nineteen men would soon understand that, as others before them – in karting, in Formula 4, in Formula 2 – had done, by dint of repeated humiliations and podiums stolen by a "weak woman." 

The taste of victory was even more delicious, sweetened by the karma that always knew how to deal with men who were a little too sure of themselves. 

Her phone rang for two seconds. An employee – she didn't know his first name either, he was simply registered as “CM dude” in her contacts – asked her to react to the news. She posted a simple tweet that said, “You can count on me to do everything I can to bring Williams to victory.” The first responses called her a “whore.” Others told her to crash at the first corner. The usual, which was no less bitter. 

Astrée locked her phone, her jaw clenched, determined to make her words a reality and, above all, to make them eat theirs. 

Her parents had always told her: “you will do great things, Étoile.” And the Greeks were never wrong when it came to prophecies. It was time to make it come true. 

The brunette stood up and, deliberately ignoring the clock in her office which read 11.30PM, switched on her simulator before selecting the Imola circuit. Her fingers wiggled alone ⏤ as if they had a mind of their own ⏤ and tapped on the gears. First, second, third... Soon the woman fell into a trance that could only be triggered by racing: slowing down at the sadly infamous Tamburello corner, starting again, overtaking, never giving in to the pressure of the opponent, not flinching at the Rivazza, winning. 

It was April 2. D-16. 

Astrée pressed “restart the race.” The clock already read twelve past one. 

✩ April 5, 2021

Then came the first practice. 

With an umbrella in her left hand and her helmet tucked under her right arm, Astrée cursed the English weather almost as much as she cursed the fact that she was in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. 

It was D-13 and the first practice in real condition would occur on a – very – wet track. She could see from here the large puddles that dotted the training track in a patchwork of elements – between earth and water – that made her cringe. 

Astrée was not afraid – she never was. On the contrary, she even found that the rain always added a welcomed challenge. However, it was obvious that she would have preferred to test the limits of her car in dry tires before putting it on full wet blue tyres. 

Since signing her contract, the woman had obviously trained in real conditions, ready to step in if she was needed during the first race. But, as Imola was approaching, the pressure was increasing and so were the demands of the team.

Astrée nearly burst out laughing at this. She refrained from pointing out the nerve of Williams to put so much pressure on her when Latifi had not won any points in 17 races the previous season. 

The record to beat was literally zero. 

She did not know if she should laugh or cry. 

Astrée did not want to think about whether Nicholas Latifi had been put under as much pressure or if it was something that was reserved just for her. 

A hand came to rest on her shoulder. She looked at it in dismay before glaring at whoever had dared to do this. John – or was it Harry? (she still hadn't resolved the dilemma) – immediately withdrew his hand and apologised. 

He had been awkwardly reassuring her for a good quarter of an hour, ever since she'd let out a big sigh at the sight of the soaked track.

“It's okay, Astrée. You'll just have to be a little less abrupt in the corners, otherwise you'll –”

“I know how the car works, John. Thank you.”

“My name is Adam.”

“Oh.”

Shit, she gritted her teeth, neither of them then. Without a word, the woman got into the car – fucking awkward, she thought – and closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying that first feeling in her single-seater. 

This is it. 

"So, how do you feel?" a new voice to her right startled her. 

George Russell looked at his teammate with a rather creepy smile ⏤ a good intention of course, just poorly executed. She returned the gesture, although hers was somewhat tense. Astrée had never been good with strangers. 

They hadn't met yet. Or at least, not spoken. A handshake when she signed her contract, two or three words of courtesy exchanged during the inaugural photoshoots, and an almost obligatory follow back on Instagram: their interactions had stopped at that. 

“More enjoyable now that it's mine.”

Hers. Her car. Her place in Formula One. The 10-year-old Astrée would probably be crying. The 21-year-old Astrée just nodded in approbation. 

Don't show your emotions, they'll think you're weak, her father's voice echoed in her head like a mantra.  

“You can go now, Astrée,” Jo– Adam told her. “Elijah is ready.”

The only name she had remembered, the only name that mattered to her: her engineer's, her second conscience. 

"Radio check, Astrée, do you copy?”

“Copy.”

“Great. Whenever you're ready.”

Inhale. Exhale. The void. The tar. The car. The corners. Nothing else. A roar echoed through the silent track and rekindled the flame in her heart. Birds that had been perched on the edge of the pit flew away as the engine purred. Immediately, she exited the garage and zig-zagged down the track to warm up her new tyres. 

“We'll do two warm-up laps to be safe.”

Taking advantage of being alone on the track, Astrée braked sharply, feeling the rear end take off, and accelerated again to see how well the tyres gripped, how responsive the steering system was, and the overall handling of the car. 

“Just warm up your tyres for now.”

“I want to see their limits when they are still cold.”

“Copy. Just be careful.” 

The first two laps alternated between zigzags, braking, accelerations, and corners taken too short or too wide. When the third lap finally began, already a little more comfortable with her car and her tyres – now warm –, the driver let the pleasure dominate everything else, so that she did not see the laps go by, nor the turns follow each other. Soon Elijah's voice signalled the end of practice. 

“Box.”

“Copy.” 

When she got out of the car, her legs shaking, a dozen people rushed to share their first impressions of her driving. They had already seen her drive in many other tests as a reserve driver. They had witnessed it, but had they bothered to pay attention at it on those occasions, when she was only the reserve driver, the product of a marketing stunt? 

“It was better than I imagined!”

“That's pretty good for a woman.”

She took these half-hearted comments without complaining, reluctant to make enemies within her own team, but thanked her helmet, still pressed down on her head, which hid her dark expression. 

Soon, in the midst of this group, a figure stood out and stepped forward. George, his own helmet in hand, ready to go for a series of laps himself, reached out for hers with the other one in a symbolic gesture: “It will be a pleasure to be on the same team.”

Astrée was careful not to share her opinion – quite different from his – and shook the dark-haired man’s hand, with the same tight smile on her face. He may have been her teammate, but on the track, they were – above all – opponents. She couldn't forget that, as she had never been able to in the past. Her journey in motorsports had been a lonely one because of her competitive spirit, and it would continue to be so for the rest of her life. 

“Likewise.”

✩ April 16, 2021

On her first real day on the paddock, Astrée had to face her worst nightmare: media day. Wearing the compulsory mask – a sort of protective barrier for the introvert she was – reassured her a little but did not totally calm her racing heart, nor her annoyance. Because Astrée knew, she knew exactly what kind of questions she was going to be asked. 

Journalists had the rather impressive capacity of never renewing themselves and having the same ideas. If the human brain normally sought to distinguish itself from others, the journalist's brain thrived for lack of creativity and repetition. From karting to Formula 2, everyone had had the same annoying questions for her. A routine of boredom that had a knack for annoying and sending her into despair. 

Her doubts were soon confirmed. 

“Not too scared?”

“What kind of underwear are you wearing right now?”

“How does it feel to have George Russell as a teammate? He is rather handsome, isn’t he?”

Beside her, because all the segments were done as pairs today, the aforementioned George was trying to calm things down, defuse the question or just change the subject altogether. At one point, he even held back her fist when it almost – voluntarily – came into contact with the cheek of an old pervert, who had made a remark about her tight suit. 

Astrée appreciated the gesture – she didn't want to be called hysterical on her first day – and let him know when, finally, the line "interviews" was crossed off their to-do list.

“Thank you for holding me back. It's bad enough no one likes me, I think it would have made things worse.”

“Yeah, no problem.” There was a rather awkward pause as they both walked towards Williams’s garage, the crunch of their footsteps on the tarmac their only melody. Finally, George decided to go on, unable to bear the heavy silence. "I mean… If I could, I would have hit him myself. Don't listen to them, okay? All those... people? assholes? whatever,” he gestured vaguely with his arm at her haters. “They’re not worth it. You drive a Formula 1 car and they don't. In the end, you're the winner.”

Astrée decided at that precise moment that George was perhaps worth it. He had not, after all, made any remark about her gender, nor had he let her eyes wander lower than necessary: two criteria – low, certainly, but the standards had to be revised downwards – that would have seriously hindered her wish to maintain a semblance of friendship. 

If her loneliness in Formula 2 was mostly explained by her introverted personality, many deliberate choices had put an end to any hope of creating links with others within the championship. Astrée had been treated as an object of desire and fragility by many of her teammates. Voluntary isolation had been the wisest decision to make, especially if she didn't want to be penalized or excluded for assault and battery against another driver. 

George, on the other hand, had treated her as an equal – which she was, but then again, the bar was at the lowest – which already set him apart from every other driver she'd encountered in her career. 

“Would you like to eat something? I could introduce you to some of the guys.”

Astrée winced, reluctant to be thrown into the lion's den so quickly. The lion being a dozen boys who would look at her as the latest attraction or as the enemy to be shot. Take your pick. 

“I promise you they're nice,” George reassured her, seeing her reluctance very clearly. 

“I don't doubt it.”

The woman especially hated the nicey-nicey spirit almost imposed by the new generation. She wasn't in F1 to make friends, just to win. George would be the exception to that, she decided. Surely her choice was encouraged by the fact that he was not really a threat to her. 

Astrée had researched all the pilots, mainly their point totals. It was a way to give her a quick statistical overview of what she had already deduced from her viewing of each race. Thus, she knew that last season George Russell had come away with 4 points, failing to stand out from the rest. 

That was already four points higher than Latifi, she couldn't help but think, a mocking smile on her face. 

“We’re here,” her teammate's voice brought her back to reality. 

The moment they walked through the door, a collegiate atmosphere engulfed them. Laughter, conversation, the smell of coffee and the sound of spoons banging on cups immediately gave her a headache. 

A glance at the clock on her phone. 9AM. An hour before the first free practice. She could allow herself a croissant or an apple, but no coffee. Throwing up during her first real F1 race would not make a good impression. No doubt about that. 

"George, over here mate!"

Lando Norris had been the one shouting: an orange blob in the middle of the black-clad staff. Beside him were Pierre Gasly and Daniel Ricciardo. All eyes turned to the newcomers and Astrée felt like dying at that very moment. 

So much for discretion. 

George grabbed her by the upper arm and dragged her – against her will, mind you – towards the trio who were too noisy for her taste. It was far too early to have that much energy, or had they taken too much coffee? 

“Nice to meet you, I'm Lando! This is Daniel and Pierre, whom you might know. You're both French.”

She restrained herself from saying that sharing a nationality with someone could not guarantee an acquaintance.

Of course, Astrée and Pierre had crossed paths before, at the FFSA Academy in Le Mans in particular, but always from a distance. He probably had better things to do than talk to a ten-year-old girl. 

“I know who you are, thank you.” The woman smiled, hoping that this one didn't look too fake. “Astrée Iraklidis, nice to meet you.”

Not really. In an hour, Twitter will ship me with one of you three.

“We know who you are,” Daniel laughed. “I don’t know if you noticed but you’re the talk of the town since you were announced as a reserve driver, but hey, you're not that anymore. Congratulations, by the way, and welcome to Formula One!”

“Thanks!” she smiled, frankly this time, always happy to be reminded of her achievement.

“The interviews weren't too annoying? It's bad enough that we get crappy questions, it must have been worse for you,” asked Pierre. 

“Well,” Astrée shrugged, “they just asked me what panties I was going to wear under my suit. You know, the usual.”

The three pilots winced as George sighed at the memory of the old man. Maybe he should have let her hit him. 

“Why don't they ask me that?” Lando complained. “I've invested in Calvin Kleins. With the price I paid for them, I’ll show them off in a heartbeat.”

Astrée laughed – to her great surprise – which she tried to hide by clearing her throat, but the four men saw right through her and smiled. 

It was obvious to them that the woman was reluctant to bond. 

In the WhatsApp group they all had – which she had yet to be added in – Sebastian Vettel had emphasised the importance of making her feel welcome and comfortable on the paddock. Since they were the same age, Lando had been given the task of breaking through the shell that surrounded her. 

The speed with which her face fell back into a neutral expression told him that this would be no easy task. 

“If you have a problem,” Daniel smiled at her, “you can come to me anytime.” 

“And if you get tired of speaking English, je suis là,” added Pierre. 

Before the woman could respond, George butted in.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, but we've been asked to return to the garage, Astrée. We have to get ready. It's nearly ten o'clock.”

The two of them said goodbye to the trio – who also decided to leave, seeming to remember that they too were expected somewhere – and went back to Williams’ to change. 

As she closed her white and blue jumpsuit up to her neck with one hand – a difficult task to execute with a helmet under her arm – the Englishman called out to her and asked her what she thought of the three drivers. 

“They are nice. It's hard to form an opinion. We only talked for a few minutes. But Daniel is very… sunshin-ey.”

She left it at that, her mind already focused on the free practice session. 

These went without a hitch. Astrée chose not to fully display her capacity, to even appear clumsy, taking some turns much too wide while still pushing the car to its limits so that the mechanics could make modifications if necessary. Elijah asked her what was going on – why was she driving like that when the practices in England had gone perfectly well? – but she didn't answer, knowing full well that all their communications were recorded, and sometimes even broadcasted live.

Make them think you are impressionable and fragile. They'll underestimate you and be more distracted, her mother had once told her, a wise piece of advice she was now following to the letter. It had worked in Formula 2, there was no reason why it couldn't work in the top category. 

To win, you had to know how to use all possible means. The other drivers’ internalized misogyny was one of the most effective tools. 

When she got out of her car, leaving the engineers and mechanics to do their job once she had given them her impressions – in particular on a problem on the left side of the front suspension – Astrée winced, already feeling the stress rise in her throat and roll up into an impossible-to-dislodge ball. 

In the garage, she put her helmet on the table intended for that purpose. As soon as that was done, the woman unzipped her suit and tied it around her waist, wanting at all costs to free her neck, which was already under strain from her growing anxiety. 

“I'm going to stretch my legs,” she signalled to Adam – she had finally remembered his name. 

Glances burnt the back of her head, but Astrée ignored them. In the midst of the constant hubbub of the paddock, between the cameras, team members, drivers, assistants and guests, she blended in and was forgotten for a while.  

Whispers tickled her ears as she passed by some of the journalists. 

“Astrée Iraklidis was disappointing during the free practices. If we don't ask the pilots to bring out the heavy artillery during these four hours, we ask them to have a minimum of knowledge on what they are doing. The number 95 didn't manage to show this.”

And then, that question. Always the same.

"Should women drive in F1?”

She deliberately scoffed loudly as she passed by the idiot who asked that. This had the desired effect as the journalist stammered. Not even his mask could hide his cheeks, which were flushed with embarrassment. A sly smile stretched her lips. Good. 

“Astrée! Hey! I believe we haven't talked yet?”

She turned around and almost collided with this stranger – a familiar one – much too close for her taste. Taking her step back, she immediately recognised the newcomer. The Dutch accent was quite a clue. 

Max Verstappen. 214 points last season. 3rd in the championship. A threat. Maybe even the worst of all. She was immediately suspicious. This reflected in her tense shoulders and calculating eyes. If the Dutchman noticed, he pretended not to. 

“Max, nice to meet you.” He shook her hand with great gusto and immediately began to speak again. His gestures and words followed each other at the same speed as he drove. Astrée felt dizzy. “I saw your free practice. I must say I'm a little disappointed because I've been watching your races since they announced your arrival. But it must be stage fright.”

“Probably.” 

“I think you could make up for it by accelerating more and playing with the gears a little.”

On Twitter, everyone was constantly talking about “maxplaining.” The woman didn't think she'd have to pay the price so soon, and on her own performance on top of that. 

“You could try to play more on the inside. In fact, for example, in the third turn, you took it much too wide, which made you lose a lot of time. And then...” The rest of his explanation soon became background noise.

He continued to follow her, not understanding that she was walking faster to lose him. 

God, give me the strength. 

“I'll do all that,” she finally cut him off. “Thank you for the valuable advice.”

He grinned brightly at her. 

For a man whose harsh attitude was a trademark, he didn't quite understand sarcasm. 

✩ April 17, 2021  

And then there was the adrenalin of qualifying, lulled by the voices of the commentators who paid special attention to her every move. 

... 

“All eyes are on number 95, of course! This is a historic moment, ladies and gentlemen. For the first time, a woman is taking part in the F1 World Championship!”

...

...

...

“The Williams driver's debut seems rather complicated. She’ll have to realize we're not in F2 anymore if she wants a good place on the starting grid!”

...

...

“Astrée advances in Q2, but it is clear the Frenchwoman seems to have some difficulties to find her marks.”

...

“Look at this! Iraklidis seems to systematically take her corners too wide, which makes her lose valuable time. Is she trying to save energy and preserve her car for the race? Or is it simply a lack of skill?”

...

...

“Astrée will not advance to Q3. It's a P11 for the Frenchwoman. Already very impressive for a first race, but it's still far from the capacities that Williams had made us hope for.”

Over the radio, Elijah's sizzling voice tried to reassure her: “If you don't get a point in the first race, it's not bad, it's even normal. Don't worry.”

“Oh, I'm not worried.” You could almost hear her smile. “P11 is fine. You have to give them a head start. It's not as much fun otherwise.”

This sentence was broadcasted live. Insults rained on Twitter. She ignored them all, high on adrenaline and confidence. 

She was going to show them that women could and should drive in F1.  

✩ April 18, 2021, 3PM. 

Blackout. Just flashes: the warm-up lap, the zigzags, left right, left right, her heart speeding up, the lights turning green. 

The first acceleration. 

Take advantage of the confusion during the first corner. 

The total absence of hesitation. 

The Tamburello, taken tightly. Three places already won. 

The routine that sets in.

The fear of all other drivers. 

The laps, one after the other. 

The nonstop overtaking. 

“Astrée Iraklidis seems to have woken up! It's like we’re witnessing a different driver. Look how fast this Williams is going! Was her hesitant attitude during qualifying just a decoy? It sure seems like it.”

…

…

“22 laps! 41 more to go!”

…

“Box,” said Elijah. “Tyre change.”

“Copy.”

...

“It seems that Williams has chosen to favour the undercut. If Astrée risks losing time and places, she will get them back when the drivers in front of her also have to pit.”

...

“The Williams pit crew was very effective on the stop. It’s as if the whole team is riding on the adrenaline that Iraklidis' performance triggers!”

...

...

“George is DNF. He crashed with Bottas.” Elijah informed her. “You're on your own. Only 33 laps left.”

“Merde! Okay, copy.”

...

...

...

“And now Iraklidis overtakes the two Ferraris in a stroke! What's going on?” The commentator laughed in glee. “Williams is putting on a great show, as Verstappen and Hamilton continue their fierce battle!”

...

“The Williams is one place away from the podium! Only Lando Norris stands as a barrier between her and her goal. Will she succeed?”

...

“Incredible! Iraklidis overtakes Norris in the very tight Tosa! It's clear that the new driver is not afraid of doing what must be done. It was a very risky move, especially with worn-out tyres and less grip. But the risk paid off! Now the number 95 will have to defend her position for ten laps and maybe – maybe! – chase an even higher standing!”

...

... 

...

“Only 5 laps to go and Iraklidis is still third! Four seconds ahead of Norris who seems to have been destabilised by his fall in the standings! Verstappen, on the other hand, seems untouchable with his 20 second lead over Hamilton!”

...

...

And then, the liberation. 

“Max Verstappen wins the Emilia Romagna Grand Prix! Hamilton takes 2nd place while Iraklidis closes the podium! The first woman to do so! This is a historic moment, ladies and gentlemen!”

✩ April 18, 2021, 6PM. 

Finally, there was the podium, without its famous cooldown room and with a mask on.

They still gave the three pilots time to recover from their emotions and to discuss their race a little. Astrée immediately detached herself from the two men and threw herself on the water bottles, drinking the transparent gold greedily. It was without any delicacy that she wiped the few drops that had fallen on her chin, almost choking when she saw who was coming towards her. Her cheeks flushed within seconds and her hands began to tremble. 

If nothing else compared to the feeling of finishing third in her first ever Formula One race, meeting Lewis Hamilton was a close second. She'd never seen him up close and personal. The television didn't do justice to his beauty. 

Damn, what is his skincare routine? 

“The dermo-system range from Dior.”

“Huh?”

“My skincare routine. It's Dior.”

“What? I– OH! No! I mean... I– You know what? I'm gonna shut the fuck up,” she muttured, making him laugh. 

The Englishman was one of her idols, one of the figures who had taught her it was worth fighting for your dreams and that hard work was always rewarded. This was the first time he had spoken to her and she was thinking out loud in front of him. 

Idiote. 

“You were great earlier. I saw a couple of clips after the race. Your overtaking of Norris was impressive. Well done, not many people would have risked that in the Tosa, especially on their first race.”

Stay calm. Look normal. 

“I can't afford to make mistakes; I have to try risky things.”

“I get it. By the way, I'm Lewis,” he held out a tattooed hand, which she shook, secretly hoping hers wasn't sweaty. His eyes were crinkled. He was smiling. Even with the mask on, she could picture his teeth gap. 

Her whole face felt warm. Once again, she thanked the pandemic and its masks. 

“Astrée. It is truly an honour to meet you, and to be able to drive on the same track? Incredible.”

The woman left it at that, knowing full well that if she continued, she would end up saying something embarrassing. Fortunately, they were soon asked to go on the podium, Astrée first, to the sound of the teams’ applause only – no audience was allowed – but especially that of Williams employees, unused to seeing their drivers up there.  

Once the Dutch anthem finished playing and the trophies were distributed, the champagne flowed freely. Astrée was happy to pour the gold sparkling liquid over the other two and to be sprayed, sometimes running her tongue over her lips to catch a few drops. 

The taste of victory was delicious. 

No one paid any attention to it, but Astrée was not blind to the subtle shift in Max's attitude. Silent, avoiding her gaze, spraying Lewis more than her, he was far different from the one ready to give her advice the day before to help her in qualifying. 

The woman always found it funny how people's behaviour could change dramatically when they felt in danger, when they realized that she wasn't just a political statement. Even if he had been 20 seconds ahead of her today, he knew for sure that she could easily decrease the gap with a better starting position tomorrow. 

Astrée smirked.

She had won a fucking podium on her first ever race. Damn right, he should be afraid of her. 

✩ taglist !

@xcharlottemikaelsonx @i0veless @simping4marauders @muglermami @fxllfaiiry @exatse @lilsiz @iloveandsuffer @notaceventura @missamericana69 @kageyamama-hinatatata @gentlemonsterjennie1 @sad1esgf @16solace @kenanlotus0 @till1am @itsnotgray @starkwlkr @missflobelova @mehrmonga @crimeshowjunkie @anicega @kosmosgalore @lovemarvel16 @charles-dimple @hiding-behindmy-glasses

[umgeorge]

pole-sitter george russell is interviewed during the post-qualifying press conference, canada - june 8, 2024 (transcript under the cut)

Interviewer: "A very warm welcome to the top three qualifiers for the FIA Formula 1 Canadian Grand Prix. In third place, Lando Norris; in second place, Max Verstappen; and taking the second pole position of his Formula 1 career and his first here in Montreal, the pole-sitter, George Russell. George, many congratulations. What a session; literally nothing to separate you and Max in the end. Start by giving us your reaction to what's just happened." George: "Yeah, such a buzz. It's been a while since we've experienced this feeling, and so much hard work going on behind the scenes back in Brackley, at Brixworth, and it's been a little while to be able to sort of get back into the fight. And we've almost felt like all of that hard work hasn't been paying off, but I think these last two race weekends has really shown that, and, as I said, we've been so fast all weekend. Q3 was probably our worst session of the three, and bodes well for tomorrow." Interviewer: "As you say, it has been a while. It's been nearly two years since you took that pole in Hungary. Were you getting impatient for it to happen again?" George: "To be honest this weekend's been really challenging to know because of the conditions yesterday. You've had rain around all weekend, and then this morning Lewis was absolutely flying and he was well ahead of me, and had to look a lot into his data, try and understand what he was doing differently, and [laughs] to be honest that helped me a huge amount ahead of this qualifying. And just so glad that we could pull it off, because I feel like we really deserve it for all of this hard work we've been putting in, and the car's been feeling awesome this weekend." Interviewer: "Well, look, where is the car better this wekeend? Tell us about it." George: "Well, it always feels better when your name's towards the top of the timesheets, to be honest, but it's just turning really nicely through the corners. I think we stuggled a lot with understeer before. Last year we had a lot of oversteer, and we've sort of been just trying to find the halfway house between what we had last year and what we had this year, and it feels like we're sort of dialing in that sweet spot right now. So feels like something we've been saying for a long time, in all honesty, but it's just really a sense of relief to actually see it translate into a pole position." Interviewer: "And tell us about the conditions. We saw you have a big moment, I think it was at turn four in Q2. How difficult was it out there?" George: "Yeah, it was really challenging, to be honest. All weekend, every single session and every lap has been changing. The sun comes out, the track temperature warms up, then the clouds come in, it's spitting, and it's just really, really difficult to find that sweet spot. And my lap on the used tire was really, really strong in Q3 and I was expecting to find about three or four-tenths for the second lap on the new tire, and we actually just… It didn't click, but it was fortunate enough the first lap was good enough for pole." Interviewer: "So the race tomorrow, we've had very little dry running. What are your predictions?" George: "I think it's gonna be a tough race for everybody, to be honest. Graining seems to be an issue, and this new track surface, nobody really knows how it's going to pan out. But we've got to go for victory, where the car is genuinely really, really fast at the moment. But it's gonna be a long race, I think. As soon as you fall off that cliff of the tires tomorrow it's gonna be really difficult to recover, so yeah, it could be a bit of a strategic game. Maybe not as extreme as we saw in Monaco last week, but maybe something similar." Interviewer: "Alright. Very well done. Best of luck."

[time jump] Journalist: "Jake Boxall-Legge, Autosport. Question for George, please. You mentioned that you didn't quite get it hooked up on the second lap, and Lewis didn't improve, either. Was it just the nature of the conditions, with the weather changing, or did you just get the most out of it on the first one?" George: "Yeah, the conditions were changing. I think we were one of the last to do our laps-I don't know when Max did his lap-but my lap in Q2 was really, really strong. My first lap in Q3 was really good; only I think two-tenths off what I did in Q2 on the old tire. So I was expecting to do probably three- or four-tenths ahead, like it's been all weekend, and the tires just didn't quite feel right, so it shows how sensitive everything was. And that was probably the first time that it didn't quite go our way, but, as I said, it goes to show how strong our pace has been this weekend. Q1, we didn't need to use two sets of tires. That was a first. Didn't really need to use two sets in Q2, either. It's sort of come from nowhere, but maybe not a surprise with the upgrades we've been bringing."

[time jump] Journalist: "The last couple of years has been difficult for Mercedes to fight for poles or for podiums. Did you sense any difference during this weekend, that this pole position you would be able to fight for?" George: "A hundred percent. I think every lap we've done this weekend, the car's been feeling good, we've always been at the upper end of the timesheets, and talking yesterday why do we think we were so competitive on FP1, FP2, and obviously in FP3 really fast as well. So we need to see in the next races if that continues, but obviously last week in Monaco we were a tenth from the front row, here on pole, and this is the first two races we've had with the upgrade, so yeah, time will tell. We don't want to get carried away with ourself, but yeah, it's looking good so far." Interviewer: "George, on this topic, Scott Mitchell-Malm from The Race has just asked this question: Talking about the upgrades, previous supposed breakthroughs haven't been sustainable for Mercedes, but does this feel rooted in something more real, is his question." George: "Yeah, one-hundred percent. I think, going back to what Lando was talking about, when you have a number of years with the same regulations, you sort of hone in on that sweet spot. And we've sort of been zig-zagging over these past couple of years, and, as we've probably entered the last six months those zig-zags have sort of narrowed and we've sort of really been able to fine-tune what it is we want from the car, and I think it just goes to show that small changes can actually bring big improvements of performance. We saw it with McLaren. I think ourselves have made a big jump, as well, especially in terms of the pecking order. So, as I said, let's see if this performance is sustainable, but right now I don't see any reason why not, and we think we've got more to come."

[lovelytsunoda]

yule shoot your eye out // lance stroll

summary: it was supposed to be a relaxing getaway. instead, a snowstorm traps y/n ocon and lance stroll inside the mount tremblant cabin they had rented, and strands esteban and his girlfriend at the airport. so until the snow melts, she's trapped with her brother's best friend, and forced to reckon with her feelings.

pairing: lance stroll x female ocon! reader ( forced proximity, brother's best friend )

warnings: sexual tension, smut scene that really does nothing for the plot but i wanted to put it in there anyways, super brief mention of masturbation (one sentence), drinking, discussion of kinks (or lack thereof because y/n is like me and needs to constantly know she's loved and desires closeness and intimacy-), mentions of poor mental health, half-assed love confessions where they somehow both know exactly what the other was going to say, esteban walks in on lance and y/n making out on the couch. i use too many romance tropes.

mount tremblant, quebec.

y/n ocon had never seen snow this bad. and she considered herself a country girl through and through. or at least, as close to the countryside as one could get in normandy. she drove at a cautious pace, a sharp detour from the way that she normally drove, in an attempt to keep control over the rented toyota.

"lance, i can't even see three feet ahead of me." she huffed, phone resting in the cupholder at the highest volume. lance stroll, her brother's best friend of over a decade was on the other end of the line, chuckling to himself as he tried to calm the girl down.

"calm down, y/n. you should be almost there, if the find my friends app is working the way that it should."

"that doesn't instill me with a lot of confidence, sir lancelot." she rolled her eyes, taking a turn far too cautiously for it to have been safe if there were any other cars on the road.

it's not her fault she's never experienced a proper canadian winter.

"just take one more right turn, you're almost there. do you not see the road signs?"

"i can't see through the fucking snow! i don't understand why we decided to come up here instead of going down to dallas with mick."

"you're the one who wanted a proper winter getaway."

"i meant the swiss alps!"

lance laughed down the phone before redirecting the conversation. "okay, i can see your headlights, you're at the bottom of the driveway. give me like, ten minutes and i'll meet you in front of the cabin. why are you using your windshield wipers to fend off the snowflakes?"

the aston martin driver did nothing to hide the laughter in his voice.

"fuck off, stroll."

lance tried to stop laughing, but y/n could still hear the joking tone in his voice. "just park near the top of the driveway, i'll come out and help you with your stuff."

"you're an angel, lance. and when i say 'angel' i mean the fucker from buffy the vampire slayer."

"duly noted." the canadian laughs, tugging on his parka before stepping out of the cabin and making his way down the steps. "where's your brother?"

"we weren't on the same flight. no, dear old estie decided not to come and visit if we were all going up to the cabin together." she rolled her eyes as she hung up the phone, watching as lance braved the snow, stumbling towards the rental car.

y/n had been studying at the university of manchester for the last two years and was almost done her program. staying in continental europe had allowed her to stay close to her family, and kept her close to racing, which had always been her passion. she was studying mechanical engineering, with a student placement at carlin. of course, her ultimate goal was to be the first female race engineer in formula one, and being able to get in at alpine wouldn't hurt.

esteban and elena would be flying out of paris, but their flight was supposed to leave an hour ago and she hadn't heard anything. no confirmation that esteban had boarded the plane, no word on any delays.

she tried not to think about it as she stepped out of the car, the hood on her puffy white jacket pulled up against the harsh wind. "let me give you a hand."

lance shook his head. "you've been driving for hours, and your flight was what, six hours long? no, i am carrying your bags."

"at least let me take the suitcase, it's heavy." she insisted, although there was a fuzzy feeling in her stomach at the stroll boy's enthusiasm to help her out.

lance had always been a sweetheart, and she'd be lying if she said that in the last three years, she hadn't felt warm and fuzzy around the aston martin driver. he always went out of his way to make her feel comfortable and included, make her laugh when she felt down. when she had been having a hard time at university, lance had come up to visit her when esteban couldn't, or when she didn't want to worry her parents.

she'd be lying if she said that picturing lance stroll in her bed was the only thing that got her off when her hand was between her thighs. that the reason she was probably still single was because she never made it past a second or third date because she kept comparing every single suitor to her brother's best friend.

"absolutely not." lance insisted. "but you can take the backpack."

"all the backpack has in it is books, a travel pillow and a fucking water bottle. come on, i feel bad." y/n insisted, making grabby hands towards her hard-scheel suitcase, backpack slung over one shoulder. "lance."

"y/n. stop arguing with me, it's cold out here. let me help you."

"fine." the ocon girl caved, locking the car and trudging her way up to the front steps of the rented vrbo cabin.

the two stumbled inside, dropping bags in the foyer and stripping out of snow-covered winter coats.

lance would be lying if he said that his line of sight wasn't immediately drawn to the tight holly-green sweater that y/n was wearing, and the way it made her curves look perfect in the warm led lights.

"i haven't heard anything from esteban since i left manchester. has he called you at all?"

"i'm sure you're overthinking, y/n." lance tried to placate the girl in front of him. "he'd call if anything was wrong. i haven't heard from chloe and scotty either."

y/n laughed, slumping down on the faux leather couch. the cabin was cozy: all cedar wood and plaid accents, shockingly Canadian in the sense of décor. fairy lights hung from exposed timbers and she tried to allow herself to relax, tucking her feet underneath a thick plaid blanket.

"i guess that's typical younger sibling bullshit, isn't it?"

lance laughed, taking a seat on the couch next to the young woman. it was all he could do to keep a respectful distance, knowing that if he was any closer, he'd probably do something stupid.

like kiss her.

"i'm sure our siblings are fine." lance reassured, thinking about his own sister and her fiancée.

"hold that thought." y/n said, sitting up straighter as her phone began to ring, esteban's name flashing across the screen. "estie? where are you?"

"we're still in paris. our flight just got cancelled because of the storm. the airline moved us to a flight two days from now, so we're going to stay down the road from the airport." esteban sounded exhausted, his voice far off as it flooded through the small speakers at the base of her iphone. "they said they'd call if anything changed. did you land okay?"

"the flight was rocky, but i made it in one piece. lance and i are at the cabin now. there's still nothing from chloe and scotty."

"putain. listen, as long as you're with lance, you're safe from the storm. just hang tight and i'll call when i have more news."

"okay. estie? stay safe. i love you."

"love you too." the phone began to crackle, her brother's next words getting lost somewhere between phone lines.

"esteban? esteban?" the three beeps from her phone indicated that the lines had gone down, the simple 'no service' icon appearing in the top right hand corner.

y/n groaned, leaning further back against the couch, knees drawn into her chest as she dropped her phone on the cushions. "the lines are down."

she knew what this all meant. she was stuck in a log cabin with lance stroll and every fond feeling that she had ever harboured for the aston martin driver. she'd either lose her mind or do something freakishly stupid.

"is esteban all right?" lance asked quietly, gingerly moving closer on the couch. y/n took that as a cue, falling straight into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder. breathing in his cologne.

she'd always loved that fucking cologne.

she sighed, closing her eyes. "his flight got cancelled. they're trying to get him on a flight in a few days, but he's not exactly hopeful. it's a miracle that i got here alive, if i'm being frank."

"it's not all bad. we may not have cell signal, but we do have heating, and there's a fridge full of food and wine. a dvd player and a stack of christmas movies."

"alcohol sounds great right about now." y/n agreed, pulling the blanket further over her body.

"red wine or white?" lance asked, getting to his feet and crossing over to the kitchen. "i've also got my mom's sugar cookies."

"red, please. and bring the cookies. tell claire-anne i think she's a bloody legend."

the canadian laughed, popping the cork as he switched on the small radio on the counter, oldies christmas music flooding the open concept main floor, elvis crooning about how he'd have a blue christmas without the one he loved.

me fucking too, mr. presley.

"don't worry, she already knows." lance beamed, coming back to the living room with two wine glasses and a tin of cookies shaped like christmas trees. "have you been doing all right lately? i never felt right about heading back home after that one weekend."

the french girl knew what weekend lance was talking about. she had been in a bad place that entire week, and esteban was worried about her. he was too busy with sponsorship events and couldn't catch a flight out of france soon enough, so he had called lance. the strolls had been at silverstone that week running simulator time at the aston martin factory. lance had driven the four hours from towcester to manchester, and had stayed with her all weekend. as soon as lance came inside the apartment, she had broken down crying in lance's arms. all she had been able to say at the time had been 'i want my mom', repeating it in both english and french while lance held her, whispering that everything would be okay.

"they've been getting better. the semester ended and think the break has done wonders for me. winter semester starts up in january, and my schedule is a little lighter. i'll be working with carlin again, so once the season starts, hopefully i'll be able to get out a little bit more. i'm supposed to be back at the factory three times a week after christmas." y/n started, taking a sip of her wine, still curled up in a blanket. "i'm thinking about getting a rabbit or something. just so i'm not alone in the apartment all the time."

lance nodded along. "that might be nice. how many years do you have left?"

"two years. stephanie carlin is actually really excited about signing me on full time. just as a junior engineer, not a race engineer, but one day i'll get there."

"i have full faith. you'll be coming for brad's job in no time."

y/n laughed, the sound bordering on a snort. "what, so you can tell me that you know the car is already on fire, or that i don't know that the 'pit confirm' and 'ok' buttons are the same thing?"

"you love listening to me and brad and you know it. you think it's charming."

she raised her eyebrows, taking another sip of her wine. "charming isn't exactly the word that i would use."

the duo didn't realize how fast time would fly. conversation flowed comfortably, the wine bottle already halfway empty, the tin of cookies now reduced to a few small crumbs at the bottom of the metal container. they were now sharing a blanket, their legs resting on top of each other.

"this is going to sound completely absurd, but i need to know." lance laughed.

"it's twenty questions. nothing is too absurd." y/n laughed back. "hit me with your best shot, pat benatar."

lance cocked an eyebrow "are you wine drunk?"

"maybe." she giggled, taking another sip. "was that your absurd question?"

"no, not at all. this is: what are you into? like, in bed? because i walked in on your brother and elena once right before a press conference, and i cannot unsee that shit.”

“try hearing him through the walls. our house was small as hell, lance. imagine hearing your older brother have an orgasm. it’s traumatizing.”

“come on, you have to be into something. stop avoiding the question.”

“lance stroll, you don’t ask a woman about her kinks before a first date!”

“what are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything!” she managed to say through laughter. “really, I’m not. I don’t have any kinks.”

lance raised an eyebrow. “everybody has at least one, come on now.”

“really, I don’t. my roommate in freshman year made me take an online bdsm test, and it came back a hundred percent vanilla.”

“a kink is anything that turns you on during sex, y/n. there has to be something.”

y/n rolled her eyes, staring at her almost empty wineglass. “there is not enough red wine in the world for this conversation.” she reached towards the coffee table, pouring the last dregs of the deep red liquid into her glass.

lance looked at her intently. “now I’m curious. what secrets is little miss perfect hiding?”

“I suppose if I had to pick something, because you seem so desperate to embarrass me today,” she rolled her eyes dramatically. “I would say that my kink is romance. some girls want to give up control and have someone tell them what to do during sex, or be tied up and shit, and that's perfectly fine, for them, but I just want to be loved and cared for. I want grand gestures and rose petals and hand holding. I want to be called sweetheart, and darling, and pretty girl.”

lance raised his eyebrow again. god, he shouldn’t look that good when he looks at me like that, she thinks to herself. “that’s it? that’s what you’re so ashamed of?”

“grand romantic notions get you nowhere in the real world. I know that men are going to get bored with me real quick that way.”

“I wouldn’t.”

her heart stopped beating for a fraction of a second, her breath caught in her throat. it’s the alcohol talking, she tried to tell herself. there’s no way he just said what he said.

“I’d call you ‘pretty girl’ all night long, fuck you as tenderly and lovingly as you wanted, and I’d hold your hand the entire time, as long as you wanted me to.”

she couldn’t form a proper response. her mouth had gone dry. she stared at the beautiful man across from her, blinking rapidly as she tried to comprehend what was happening.

“uhm, y/n? hello…earth to y/n?” lance said, confusion in his voice as he looked at her. “are you okay? I think your brain kind short circuited there-“

she cut him off by planting her lips on his, practically jumping into his lap. the driver gasped in surprise before gripping her hips and holding her close. her hands flew up to cradle lances face, moaning into his mouth at the rush of sensations, the buzz that she felt throughout every nerve ending in her body.

she was kissing lance stroll.

“that’s my pretty girl.” he mumbled between kisses, pulling the blankets around their bodies.

at the sound of the pet name spilling from the canadians lips, the lips she had dreamt would someday be spilling that same praise for her in a much more intimate context, she thought she would crumble under his touch, moaning faintly as she tried to press herself up against him. she was sitting on his lap now, legs hanging off the side of the couch and lips against his, her fingertips dragging through his hair as he gripped her thigh tightly.

“lance…” she breathed heavily, the french accent in her voice wavering as the driver began to press sloppy, open mouthed kisses to her neck. “lance, baby, please don’t stop.”

lance grinned against her skin. he wanted this as much as she did, if not more. “anything for my pretty girl.”

the driver leaned back on the couch, pulling y/n's body flush against his, sliding his warm hands up the back of her sweater. she shivered under his touch, only spurring him on more.

until the lights went out with a high pitched beeping sound, the entire cabin plunged into darkness as the battery-operated radio continued to eerily play 'baby it's cold outside' as y/n jumped, tripping over lance's legs as she slid off the couch.

"jesus christ" she groaned, leaning back against the couch, the floor a piercing cold through her jeans. "what happened to the lights? even the fucking string lights are out."

"shit. the storm must have taken the power lines out." lance groaned, pulling the blanket over his lap to hide the growing tent in his jeans. "so now we have no cell phone signal, and no power."

"fucking hell." she mumbled, getting to her feet. "and no power also means no heat. esteban and elena are going to find our frozen corpses huddled for warmth in front of the fireplace."

"you're so overdramatic." lance laughed, getting up from the couch and reaching out to stop y/n from picking up the empty wine glasses. "sit down, y/n. let me handle this, pretty girl."

he said it with a grin and a wink, an overall sense of cheekiness that sent shivers down y/n's spine. she was still struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

she had made out with lance stroll, and she was about ninety eight percent certain that he enjoyed it, if the tent in his jeans was anything to go off of.

"do you have any candles or anything?"

three hours later.

the power still hadn't come back on. neither had the heat, and the fireplace couldn't warm an entire cabin. a cabin intended for six that was currently only occupied by two. a bath and body works candle that smelled scarily like a christmas tree sat on the dresser, dimly lighting up a small circle against the wall that allowed her to see just enough to pull on her plaid victoria's secret pajamas. but the flannel fabric wasn't nearly warm enough for a cabin that was rapidly losing heat.

a shiver wracked her body, goosebumps sprouting all along the hairs on her arms as she reached for the plush blanket at the foot of the bed, draping it around her body before blowing the candle out and edging the door open.

she crossed the hallway, her hands shaking from the temperature drop as she knocked on the door. she could feel heat from inside the room, indicating that lance had somehow managed to get the old woodstove in the corner working.

she hadn't bothered to try with the one in her room.

"lancelot?" she said quietly, playing into the nickname she had always used for him. "can i come in?"

the door creaked open. a loud sound against the rusted hinges. nothing wd-40 couldn't fix. "is everything okay, y/n?" lance asked, a confused and concerned look on his face.

"i'm fucking freezing. and you managed to get a woodstove to work." she shrugged, laughing softly as she gestured at the blanket she was wrapped in.

lance opened the door wider. "come on in. i've got piles of blankets, and probably some body heat."

"how reassuring." she said sarcastically, crossing the threshold into lance's room. crossing a line that could never be uncrossed as she dropped the blanket, tucking herself into the left-hand side of the bed. lance followed shortly after, draping himself over her, his arms securely around her stomach as they spooned.

"lance?" she said softly, as they lay there in the quiet and the dark. "i'm in love with you."

lance inhaled, and she could feel his entire body shudder behind her as he leaned in the whisper in her ear, his breath hot on her skin. "i've been in love with you almost since i first saw you. when my dad was first thinking about buying force india and we walked in the garage and you were there arguing with otmar in that cute little top with the bell sleeves, insisting that you knew more than the team fucking principal." he laughed, his chest rumbling against her back. "you were such a little firecracker, you know."

"and i was on a gap year as well. i took time off to help my dad with the garage. god, i thought i knew so much. i wasn't even in university yet."

"otmar followed your strategy calls that race, you know. he was unsure at first, but he got on the phone with vijay and vijay told him to go for it."

"i know. otmar told esteban afterwards, told him to give me a fucking pandora gift card."

lance laughed, trying to hide a yawn. "sounds about right. get some rest, pretty girl. see you in the morning."

eight hours later.

the room was still dark when y/n ocon woke up. she could still hear the howl of the wind outside, but the room still felt cold, the piles and piles of blankets still pulled over her shoulders. she rolled over, eyes still closed as she nuzzled into lance's chest. the aston driver groaned, one of his hands slipping down her back to cup her ass gently.

"mornin' beautiful." his voice was husky and seductive as he leaned in to kiss her.

"good morning, handsome." she said softly, her face breaking into a smile as she kissed him.

their lips moved in tandem, the air punctuated with soft giggles and wide smiles as she threw her leg over lance's thigh, trying to pull him as close as she could as he playfully smacked her ass, rolling the pair over so that he was on top.

her hands slipped up the back of his heather grey t-shirt, sliding the fabric over his head while the canadian trailed kisses down her neck, the stubble on his chin grazing the delicate skin. she moaned underneath him before he pulled away briefly to get the shirt the rest of the way off his body, casting it aside before kissing her again. her arms came up to loop around his neck, his fingers dancing across her stomach as he slowly undid the buttons on her pajama top.

"lance," she breathed. "is that. . . "

"my hard cock against your thigh?" lance winked with a sly grin. "you bet. see how turned on you make me, pretty girl? if you had said something sooner, we could have been doing this for years now. maybe i'd have even managed to put a ring on your finger."

"i guess we'd better make up for lost time, then." she grinned, helping lance take off the remainder of her flannel shirt before urging lance's head towards her rapidly hardening nipples.

"you're so beautiful, darling." he crooned, kissing and caressing as much of y/n's body as she could, her fingernails lightly digging into his upper back as he swirled his tongue over her breast.

they easily could have wasted the morning away like that. in lance's arms, y/n felt safe and secure. she felt loved, and it all felt right. something that her mother said to her when she was eighteen stuck out in her mind: when you know, you'll know.

and as she and lance shed their flannel pajama pants, his arms around her, his hands in hers as he began to thrust into her, she knew.

but she had a feeling that she had known for a lot longer than that.

"that's it, pretty girl." lance groaned, thrusting deeper and drawing a loud moan from the girl underneath him. "tell me how good i make you feel, hey? i want to know that you feel just as good as i do right now."

"yes, god, yes." she whined, eyelids fluttering shut as she watched lance bring her knuckles up to his mouth, pressing kisses to each knuckle before trailing the kisses down her arm until he reached her neck, the pace of his hips never faltering. “oh, lance, you feel incredible, love.”

"yeah? yeah, you look so pretty like this, beautiful. my pretty girl."

"oh, god! i think i-"

"are you going to come for me, pretty girl? i've got you, baby, you're safe, let go for me. milk this cock."

"oh, lance!"

as they were laying together, a tangled mass of limbs and hair, fingers still pressed to skin, sweaty bodies pressed up against one another, the power came back on, dim lights filling the bedroom as lance kissed her gently.

"i love you, y/n."

she smiled. "je t'aime aussi, lance."

four hours later.

they'd wasted the day away in the shower (having more incredible sex while they were at it), cooking together and watching christmas movies on the vhs player in the cabin's living room ("who even uses vhs tapes any more!" "people who live in cottages, babe!")

as the end credits to 'deck the halls' played on the big screen, lance and y/n softly made out in the dim light of the string lights hanging from the ceiling, curtains still pulled shut.

neither of them heard the door creak open, but they all heard esteban ocon's disgusted shout.

"what the fuck!"

"esteban, i can explain." y/n tried to reason with her brother, aware that lance's hands were in a very compromising position on her body

the alpine driver stood in the middle of the living room, snowflakes melting on his parka as he blinked, trying to make sense of why his sister and his best friend were heavily making out on the sofa.

"are those hickeys on your neck? y/n ocon-khelfane!"

"lance!" she hissed, looking over at the boy. "really? how old are you, seventeen?"

"you didn't notice when you got out of the shower?" the driver asked, trying to avoid making eye contact with esteban. "i thought you said his flight was delayed two days!"

elena shrugged. she had been standing behind her boyfriend, making the conscious choice not to get involved. "we got an earlier flight last minute. we did try to call."

"phone lines are down." y/n said apologetically. "power was out all last night, too."

"and i bet lance kept you warm, didn't he?" esteban glared at lance, ready to destroy their friendship to protect his baby sister's honor. "you have until the count or three, strulovich."

lance's eyes widened. "count fo three for what?"

"one."

"lance, run."

"he's my best friend, he's not going to hurt me. estie, come on!" lance laughed nervously. "let's talk this out."

"two."

"i think she's right." elena piped up. "you can talk it out later."

"three."

lance was off the couch in a flash. "okay, running now!"

they did, in fact, talk it out later.

but not before they wrestled each other and esteban made lance swear not to break y/n's heart.

Tags: @magnummagnussen @libraryofloveletters @daydreamingleclerc @flannel-cures @sidcrosbyspuck

[gloromeien]

Hellooooo I hope your day is good? Have an ask!

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love! <3

Whoo, my first ask! And from the exceptional and lovely @zenaidamacrouras1, whose fic Monoclonius I'm re-reading right now and loving just as much as the first time. An all-time fave, really, with just the best, sexiest, nerdiest Bucky and the sweetest dad Steve. Check it out if you haven't!

But this of course is supposed to be about *my* fics, so let's get started.

Five Favorite Fics That I've Written:

History Repleating (Or the Proper Care and Feeding of One Steven Grant Rogers), Modern AU, Shrunkyclunks, kidfic

Summary: Captain America!Steve receives a letter from Dr. J.B. Barnes, Brooklyn Historical Society. Except not quite that J.B. Barnes. This leads to Steve and Bucky having a meet cute via Bucky's work as a history teacher. Smut, fluff, and a smidge of angst ensue.

Comments: This one is, IMHO, the best fic I've ever written. Which is not to say it's good, exactly--your mileage may vary--but I don't think I'm ever going to get to this place again. It was winter 2022. We were all just re-emerging from lockdown. I was in the process of caring for my sweet little corgi girl at the end of her life, and I just needed some joy, you know? Something fun to look forward to. I feel like I channeled a lot of those emotions, that grief, into the Steve in this fic. Though it's not a sad fic by any means! It's full of bad jokes and sarcasm and sweetness and found family and people just caring for each other beyond reason. Bucky here is a bright light that comes into Steve's life at just the right moment, that allows him to believe that he could have a real future with someone to love. I really needed to hear that right about then, and so, as Alexander Hamilton sings, I wrote my way out. For that reason and many more, this will always have a special place in my heart.

Last Exit to Brooklyn, Modern AU, Shrunkyclunks, SoulMark

Summary: When Steve Rogers emerged from the ice, he wound up not only in a whole new century, but also with a brand-new soul mark. Knowing that the person he was destined to be with might be just around the corner made it easier for him to settle into a future where happily ever after was a sure thing. Until the Romanian drummer of a 'popular in Europe' heavy metal band, and freight car of personal baggage, come crashing into his life...

Comments: This fic is a confluence of so many things I really, really, really love. Soul mark AUs, for one. I looooooooove those. But I only wanted to write one if I felt like I could bring something new to the table. Once I hit on this particular idea, I knew I had to write it. Also, Tommy Lee!Seb kept me up nights, friends. I loved his look in that so much. As a teen, I had a whole hair metal phase. And it was a fun way to pay a little tribute to Seb's Romanian heritage, so... anyway. I particularly adore some of my Romanian OCs in this--two of them being not so veiled versions of Nadja and Laszlo in What We Do in the Shadows, LOL. Feeling kind of weird about tooting my own horn here, being Canadian and all (Sorry. Sorry. Sorry?) But anyway, they were all really fun to write, even if I think the fic ended up being a little too long and more angsty than I expected. A good thing? A bad thing? You can decide for yourself. ;)

Cut Him Out in Little Stars, Medieval AU, kidfic, arranged marriage

Summary:

Two Houses, both alike in dignity In fair Venora, where we lay our scene

Three years after a brutal, bloody war that saw their formerly friendly queendoms at odds for the first time in history, Prince Steven Rogers of House Grant seeks to solidify the peace between Lehigh and Venora through an alliance--marriage with Prince James Barnes of House Buchanan, his childhood friend turned unexpected enemy. But after years as the Fist of Hydra and a long recovery from brainwashing and torture, Bucky isn't in a place to marry anyone, let alone someone he doesn't even remember. Stubborn to the core, afflicted by tragic losses, and still half in love with someone who might only be a memory, Steve and his family journey to Lynbrooke, the capital of Venora, to attempt to end the tension between their queendoms, and perhaps heal his wounded heart.

Comments: My least-viewed fic by a wide margin, but one that I really love. Playing with the big tropes can be so much fun, and arranged marriage is one of the biggest and messiest. I also rewatched Seb in Kings right before writing this, and it started as a crossover between the world of that series and the idea of arranged marriage. But eventually it took its own path. I have a total soft spot for the Bucky in this one. Probably the most broken I've ever written him. I shy away from Winter Soldier recovery fics--love reading them, will never write one myself--and this is the closest I'll probably get to that. One of the reasons it's close to my heart is because I feel like they really earn their happy ending in this one.

A Slaying in Scarlet, a LOTR Mystery

Summary: On the eve of Aragorn’s coronation, Legolas and Elrohir are charged with investigating a brutal murder at the Citadel.

Comments: My AO3 account is split into two eras. From about 2002-2010-ish, I was heavily involved in the LOTR fandom, specifically writing Legolas/Elrohir, but also a few other pairings, including some OOC pairings along the way. After that, I went off to be a romance writer for a little while (and yes, I'm going to shamelessly plug my Stoker & Bash mystery romance series, because I'm fucking proud of them.) Then watching FatWS knocked me for six, and here we are, all Stucky, all the time. All this to say that my early LOTR work, I am certain, is not good. I have not re-read anything in ages, nor will I ever, most likely. But it was in writing those fics that I found a bit of my voice, and they gave me courage as a writer, and so I couldn't leave them off this list completely. This one is a Sherlock Holmes type deal, because I am also obsessed with mysteries. Hopefully it stands up a little bit. Buyer beware.

A Place to Rest and Remember Yourself (In My Arms), Shrunkyclunks

Summary: It's 2015, and Steve is living in a post-publicly coming out world. His every move is scrutinized in the tabloids and on social media, he's still wrestling with life in the 21st century, and the paparazzi never give him any peace. Making friends who aren't co-workers is practically impossible, let along dating. His solution? Have a regular, no-strings 'arrangement' with one of Natasha's honeypots. Bucky is a former spy and adventurer who used to work for S.H.I.E.L.D., but left for *reasons*. Having just gotten his heart ripped to shreds by a traitorous ex, he finds the idea of a discreet, 'with benefits' arrangement with his teenage-years crush very, very appealing. But you know what they say about what happens the minute you stop looking for love...

Comments: I wanted to write something quick and fun and smutty as hell for Stucky Week 2023. Instead... *sighs* You'll note that this ended up being 18 freaking chapters long. Why am I like this? I wish I knew.

One of my fic-writing missions is to give Steve Rogers the ending he deserves. The MCU did not treat him or his PTSD right--this is well-established in both fandom and a ton of metas more insightful than anything I could ever write on the subject. But where I feel like I maybe can address this a little is in fic. My aim here was to just spoil Steve rotten. To give him the literal world back, in the form of a Bucky who has serious wanderlust. It was also so much fun to play with Doctor Strange and the whole Sanctum Sanctorum stuff, Layla and Marc, Darcy of course, Nat and Sam. The 'love shield' Steve throws up in front of the press was inspired by Harry Windsor's PR move from many moons ago. My favorite part, about this fic, about writing fics in general, is when love just kind of happens to two people who aren't really paying attention, and suddenly it's everything, and they have to conform their lives to this new gorgeous reality. Anyway that's what I'm going for in every fic I write.

This was more talking about myself than any Canadian should do in a month, let alone a day. I need to go lie down. I don't love tagging other authors in these things, but if @burberrycanary, @bluesimplicity73, @musette22, @leveragehunters, or @dontcallmebree haven't done this yet and feel like it, I would love to read your thoughts on your incredible fics. And you, readers, please don't miss any of their tremendous work. Take it from me, their amazing stories (and Zenaida's) keep many a monster at bay when the night is dark and full of terrors. Big love to everyone out there sharing their creative endeavors with the world! <3

[sprunki-hcs]

i’m too lazy to pick voice headcanons for everyone but when I think of the characters here’s how they happen to sound: wenda sounds like ayano from yansim, pinki sounds like jecka from class of 09, simon (unfortunately) sounds like nagito from sdr2, tunner sounds like mr mackey from south park, owakcx communicates in sound effects, vineria sounds like candle from iii when depicted as a woman and like the bomboclaat dog guy when depicted as a man, sky sounds like blueberry from iii, gray beeps in morse code to communicate, jevin sounds like gabriel from ultrakill, cluckr sounds like nickel from ii, black sounds either like the god from orin ayo or the todays mission guy from freakbait (depends on the scenario), brud sounds like the canadians from family guy (specifically the ones in the canadian alcatraz scene and the one in the scene where brian and stewie’s car gets stuck on their way to the north pole), and durple sounds like skipper from madagascar. sorry if your fave isn’t on the list, maybe they should be more thought worthy.

-@robloxconfessions2

🎶.

[cambria-writes]

You've found the body of a serial killer's latest target. A friendly neighborhood Old Man. You're more honest than most of the kids that have run through the CBI offices. And you're a fortune teller. Alright, so Jane's found the honey pot in you. Now where's the hatchet?

Pairing: Patrick Jane x Original Female Character Overall Rating: A (adult content) Warnings: gun violence, murder scene, blood, mention of gore, kidnapping, implied sexual assault, gunshot wounds, panic attacks, dissociation, OFC goes through it tbh, reader is a fortune teller and vaguely clairsentient, alcohol consumption, probably unrealistic car traveling times (I'm sorry I'm Canadian), light dom/sub, Jane likes saying Good Girl, trauma and traumatic reactions, oral sex, sir kink, fingering, squirting, will update this when I remember what I have inevitably forgotten

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Chapter One: Gold Chapter Two: Tuscan Sun Chapter Three: Citrine Chapter Four: Sunglow Chapter Five: Chartreuse Chapter Six: Freesia Chapter Seven: Sulphur Chapter Eight: Dandelion Chapter Nine: Old Gold Chapter Ten: Solar Chapter Eleven: Yellow Chapter Twelve: Champagne Chapter Thirteen: Cider Chapter Fourteen: Mixer Chapter Fifteen: Chaser Chapter Sixteen: Lemon Water Chapter Seventeen: Oasis Chapter Eighteen: Respite Chapter Nineteen: Cadenza FINAL UPDATE

[chachavroomvroom]

Meme/thoughts/recaps masterlist

Looking for quality shitposting? Here’s three years of locally-sourced tomfoolery, classified by GP.

Mostly this is for my own archiving purposes!

Austin ‘22 🇺🇸:

Race recap

Interlagos ‘22 🇧🇷:

Max did not let Checo through

Race recap

…

Winter break ‘22-‘23

Another Lewis selfie hits the tl

Ferrari meme starter pack

Ferrari meme booster pack

DTS insanity

Charles’ questionable fashion choices

Alfa Romeo is Ferrari light

…

Saudi Arabia ‘23 🇸🇦:

Fernando’s p3 journey

Lestappen midfield date

Australia ‘23 🇦🇺:

Quali slay

Goddamn it

Race recap

Azerbaijan ‘23 🇦🇿:

Meme recap

Spain ‘23 🇪🇸:

Triple header from hell is over

Canadian ‘23 🇨🇦:

Live slug reaction

Lance points

Albon and his DRS train

Race recap

Austria ‘23 🇦🇹:

State of the Austrian GP

Charles winked at Max

Tifosi experience live

Monaco ‘23 🇲🇨 :

Charles releasing MON23

Dutch ‘23 🇳🇱:

Hopium

Singapore ‘23 🇸🇬:

George reporting for the slay duty

Japanese ‘23 🇯🇵:

Yearning for Seb hours

Qatar ‘23 🇶🇦:

George at the scene of the crime

Slayful chal post

No clear angle of charles congratulating max

Austin ‘23 🇺🇸:

Austin/Pain

Rip 1644

Mexico ‘23 🇲🇽:

Charles rawdogging the race

Brazil ‘23 🇧🇷 :

Penalties for everyone

Charles’ steering is gone

AAAAAAAAA

Vegas ‘23 🇺🇸:

Minor slay for the horse team

Free practice will not resume

Abu Dhabi ‘23 🇦🇪:

Quali demon Charles

…

Winter break ‘23-‘24

Overtake of the year win

Girlies of f1twt are fighting

Farewell Guenther

Farewell Guenther 2.0

Charles sledding adventures

Fred Vasseur devious moves (that day Lewis moved to Ferrari

Rookie nando strikes back

Charles’ gift of prophecy

DTS darth chal

Car launch

Slayful fireproofs

…

Australia ‘24 🇦🇺:

Nobody’s happy

Lecfosi/piastrination in the trenches

Charles so-so quali and bad luck

Japanese ‘24 🇯🇵:

Chacha’s fever dream

Yuki’s points

Charles’ raggedy mediums

China ‘24 🇨🇳:

We finally have the Chinese GP back

DRS train!

Lap 17 sprint

Miami ‘24 🇺🇸:

Max saw his life flashing

Lando drowning on the podium

Rest in pieces nowins

Monaco ‘24 🇲🇨:

Race recap

Canadian ‘24 🇨🇦:

Montreal’s fugly AI trophies

Copium

Spain ‘24 🇪🇸:

Charles demon hours

Hungarian ‘24 🇭🇺:

Race week post that triple header

Scenes at the Hungarian gp

Ferrari for once not in the drama

Spa ‘24 🇧🇪:

Charles steel chair pole

Azerbaijan ‘24 🇦🇿:

Baku pole

Singapore ‘24 🇸🇬:

Bye bye Lando’s grand chelem

Austin ‘24 🇺🇸:

Charles’ turn one triple overtake

Mexico ‘24 🇲🇽 :

Lift and coast hell

Brazil ‘24 🇧🇷 :

War flashbacks from interlagos

…

Yearly heritage moments recaps:

2022 [X]

2023 [X]

2024 [tbc]

Random 🎲:

Lecfosi club meeting [X],

Charles blue suit slay [X],

Lance Stroll lululemon olympics [X],

Ugly HP livery [X],

Cage fight in wind tunnel [X],

Charlos live slug reaction [X],

Charles cursed fade haircut [X],

State of the Scuderia ‘23 [X],

Explaining intra-team gossip [X],

Charles Leclerc F1 holiday palette [X],

Not a thought in drivers’ heads [X],

Old Charles to Aston/to Red Bull rumours [X],

Charles is a strange man [X],

Red Bull Charles [X],

Evil Max Verstappen [X],

[psygull]

There's a world of difference between a movie that is intentionally made to be bad (look at how cheesy we're being! isn't it ironic?) and a movie that knows that it's probably bad but is determined to do the most with what it's got.

Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter is not a bad movie. Nor is it a good one. What it is is incredibly earnest and charming. I've probably mentioned it before, but this is my favorite kind of movie to watch. The director was just a guy who wanted to make a movie and have fun with it, alongside a veritable army of early 2000s Canadian twenty-somethings that comprise the cast.

It would be easy for the rest of this filmpost to just be a list of things that happen in it: it's a kung fu movie, it's a musical, it's a comedy, there's a barroom brawl where people are getting staked with toothpicks and pool cues, there are TWO Jesus makeover sequences, there's a hugedude Mexican wrestler in a very small airplane, there's a lady named Mary Magnum, there's a motorcycle stunt performed by said Mary Magnum, there's holy water beer, there's lesbianism, there's a bit where Jesus bilocates to be in two fight scenes simultaneously, there's an EXTENDED bit where a bunch of atheists continually pile out of a clown car to fistfight Jesus. There are even vampires. It's wonderful, it's corny as hell, and everyone involved was full of a love for cinema and the joy of creating. Is it good? Who cares! Jesus has sideburns and wears earrings and he's crawling through a vent. Go watch it, it's on Tubi and on YouTube. If I'm not back in five minutes call the Pope.

[the-boney-rolls]

The Great Covid Beatles Binge, Day 2: Give My Regards to Broad Street

Hoo boy, here we go!

OK so we open with a stern/bored looking Paul stuck in traffic in the rain and it looks like he's spacing out... hey, Paul, are you starting to daydream? Paul? Is this whole movie about to be a dream, Paul? Oh god

This silly little car! The computer, the carpet, the pool ball gear shift. It's giving the 80's car version of the Beatles house in Help! It's also giving hyper-masculine in a way that is, I'm sorry, not convincing.

This plot is already deeply inscrutable. Something about some missing tapes, a reformed criminal that Paul knows somehow and trusts for some reason, and some ominous business men. Something bad will happen at midnight if the tapes aren't found. OK!

Ringo looks so cool and hot! That vest over that sick as hell dragon shirt. Yes. This scene is genuinely funny, too -- Ringo spends the entirety of "Here, There and Everywhere" and "Yesterday" searching through his mountains of drum equipment looking for brushes, only to find them too late. Apparently, the reason for this scene is that Ringo just didn't want to re-record old Beatles songs!

And now we have Paul, Ringo, George Martin and Geoff Emerick all together in a scene! Makes me think about how George Harrison apparently was a little miffed Paul didn't just call him to ask for filmmaking advice since it was something he had experience with. What could have been!

“Wanderlust” is such a great song, actually, damn.

“I’m not a bad boy, really. I’m just — er, manipulated” John??

Now this is more like it! Surprise Linda in drag, hell yes!

I don't know why this scene is happening? It's a rehearsal for... something? But I'll take it. I love "Ballroom Dancing" and I love vaudeville Paul.

I'm starting to feel like Paul's grandpa in AHDN, "so far, I've been in a train and a room, and a car and a room, and a room and a room." Did Paul's experience on that set define what a movie is to him? "Ah yes, a movie must include lots of transportation from one location to another and then some musical scenes." But dear, it worked because there were jokes! And all four of you to play off each other.

I.......... what

This is Silly Love Songs, of all things!

Again, I don't know why this scene is happening in the context of the movie. Is it another rehearsal for something? A music video? Television special? Who knows, Yoko! But OK here we go, I sure am having fun! Linda is extremely into it. That slap bass kills. There's a Michael Jackson impersonator for some reason? Sure! It makes no sense but I love this man and his bizarre beautiful mind.

So now we're doing band rehearsal in some kind of barn? Or abandoned warehouse? Or something? All of the plot of this movie seems to happen in dialog in cars en route to some ambiguous musical engagement.

“Do you think we can get some heat in here or are we practicing to be Canadians?” God bless you, Ringo.

“Should we try Not Such a Bad Boy” “Do we have to?” “Yeah” Bossy Paul bosses around a Beatle, we love to see it.

Is this song about him or John? 

The French horn player coming in late to record "For No One," inexplicably in a bright red motorcycle helmet, so late that he’s preparing up until right before the solo starts. Reminds me of that story of Ringo recording Hey Jude. But it also feels very symbolic of something. There are so many odd inscrutable details in this movie, it could almost be Lynchian in someone else's hands.

“We’re running, and running out of time too” It feels meaningful but I don't know how.

Hello Mr. Darcy! Wow, can I have an entire movie that’s just this Victorian dream sequence? Can we go back in time and do a Beatles movie period piece, please??

The strings in this which are inspired by but are not quite "Eleanor Rigby" are lovely. Apparently this whole sequence is called "Eleanor's Dream," which implies that Paul is Eleanor. Make of that what you will, I suppose.

I like that Linda is a pants-wearing photographer in this period scene. Linda's gotta Linda.

This strikes me as very Evil Beatles. Again, make of that what you will.

Barbara and Linda are acting the HELL out of this going over the waterfall scene damn.

I don't know, I could screen grab this entire segment, it's amazing, it's insane.

But I can't gloss over Paul being horny for Ghost Horse Girl Linda. Incredible.

"That’s it you’re finished. What are you gonna do now?" Well ok at least this one is pretty obviously a reference to the critical reception of his career after the Beatles and again after John.

"Uncle Jim" Ok so I guess this is supposed to be his dad, but what is the point of this scene? And why the monkey? The further I get into this film the more I feel like I am looking deep into this man's psyche but through the murkiest of windows. I'm here for the weird dream symbolism, Paul, but if you're gonna go that route, again go full Lynch and get even weirder.

Just the straight up original recording of "Band on the Run" feels out of place with all these re-records. I wonder why that choice.

His car license plate is "PM 1" That's right, baby, you're number 1.

Another little cute but inconsequential day dream (presumably within the dream that is this entire movie). He looks like Roy Orbison here.

Oh ok Harry was just locked in a cupboard this whole time. So the whole "plot" was pointless. Cool cool cool.

Paul and Harry being giddy and laughing together is cute though, and it makes me wish that that relationship was fleshed out more. Who are they to each other, exactly??

Yup it was all a dream. Love it, love that for us. Thanks, Paul.

OK so this was definitely barely a movie. There could have been something here, but I'll go back to what I said above -- I wish he'd gone weirder with the whole thing! And I wish Paul himself had been weirder. The character Paul is kind of a dud, just plodding along from place to place and only coming alive when he performs. It's like that Hawaiian shirt is supposed to be a stand in for characterization. But worth it for the music video scenes and for getting a tiny glimpse into Paul's psyche.