#corniche i

[untouchvbles]

Rolls Royce Silver Shadow II at Cassandra's Motorsports Open House (2023) in Pewaukee, WI.

[emaadsidiki]

MIA Park, Doha, Qatar.

[zippityzero]

//i lived and survived the outside world //and god mcdonalds except only got my french fries, i ate my burber since i was STARVING AS HELL

[sunlightmurdock]

The Odyssey | 0.1 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Summary: There are a few bumps in the road during your travel to Italy and your first day there. Bradley’s not a regular professor, he’s a cool professor.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), will be smut, virgin reader, swearing, themes of eventual infidelity, mentions of travel sickness and throwing up, wc: 4.5k

…

“I can’t do it, I just can’t go,” You throw yourself back against the leather seats and cover your face with your hands. Malcom drives a Rolls Royce corniche from last year with a black exterior and brown leather seats. You’re parked outside of Ithaca Thompkins Reigonal airport, your suitcase is in the back and your fiancé’s stroking tenderly at your cheek. “It’s going to be hell.”

“It’s a summer in Italy, honey, not jail time.” Malcolm laughs at you, lifting your jaw and giving a calm shrug of his shoulders. The sun on your face, the two of you had practically the entire winter to celebrate your engagement, it seems fitting that his last summer is his and his alone. His heart squeezes at the thought of the autumn to come. Your honeymoon, a short stay at his father’s place in the Bahamas.

Then, the rest of your lives together. The thought is enough to make you concede finally.

“It’s hardly a vacation.”

“You’ll be home before you know it, and then you’re gonna be my wife. I’ll take you on all the vacations you could want.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.” You point, tone begrudging as you finally move to pull open the car door. Your fiancé follows you out of the car, leaving the roof down as he

reaches into the back to grab your suitcase. It’s a gift from your mother, part of a matching his and hers set that should’ve stayed pristine until your honeymoon. Bringing it back tarnished isn’t an option.

He lifts it out of the car and walks around, closing your door for you and then wrapping an arm around your waist.

“This will all be a funny little thing that we look back on. Something to tell our kids the first time we take them to Italy.” Malcolm’s thumb nudges just slightly under your white t-shirt, stroking a gentle circle on your waist. He squeezes you against him, pleased with himself for finally drawing a smile from you.

“Alright, two, four, six…” Bradley counts the young adults in pairs, his brows drawing together as he searches for his seventh. There’s no need to wonder who it is that’s missing. Eight minutes after nine, he’s giving you two more before he leaves you behind.

“Hey, Bradley,” Luke is Bradley’s favourite TA. He’s not supposed to have favourites, but he’s also not supposed to have any tattoos. He’s supposed to wear a tie at work. ‘Supposed to’s’ haven’t mattered much to Bradley in the course of his career. Luke is a little shorter than Bradley, athletic and dark haired. He’s going to teach in France in the Autumn, inspired by his favourite professor. “Did you hear back from that guy in Sicily about August?”

Luke listens. He really cares about what he studies, Bradley likes that about him. They share the same sense of humour too. He smiled a little, and then shakes his head.

“No, I think he heard the American accent and made up his mind before I’d even asked him about it.” Bradley gives a small shrug, like it doesn’t matter, but they both know that would have been the opportunity of a century.

Luke’s sympathetic in his nod back. They leave it at that. Bradley lifts his arm and checks his watch again. As he’s about to turn and leave, he catches sight of you, strolling in and talking away to your fiancé like you aren’t holding everybody up.

“You’re late.”

You turn your head and look him over. He’s wearing beige shorts and white converse tennis blancs. No other professor you know would show up to a work trip in sneakers. The first impressions are set.

You’re late, he’s underdressed.

“Sorry, man. We hit traffic on Warren Road.”

It’s a maybe thirty minute drive from the furthest part of campus. Bradley doesn’t say anything at all. He just stares. Just the look on his face makes you seethe, wondering silently what kind of woman could have raised such an impolite adult.

His eyes pull away from Malcolm and fall down to the nice, white suitcase that you’ve brought along with you. It’s Ralph Lauren with an extendable handle and wheels. From this alone, Bradley knows that you haven’t spared a second to look at the itinerary. You watch him scrutinize your luggage, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Alright, well, since we’re already late. Let’s move.” Bradley decides, bored. He turns and hoists lifts his much more manageable suitcase into his right hand. Like ducklings, the other students gather quickly and follow him as he turns towards the check in desk.

“You can’t seriously expect me to spend three months in the middle of nowhere with that man,” You shake your head adamantly, folding your arms over your chest and looking to your fiancé for support. “I’ll wind up murdering him.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to say murder in an airport, honey,” Malcolm teases. He pulls you into his arms and kisses the top of your head. “You’ll be back before you know it. Go, see the world. I’ll be right here to listen to all your stories when you get back.”

“I love you.” You mumble begrudgingly into his Tommy Hillfiger polo. He grins and kisses your temple, then tells you the same. Finally, he takes you by your shoulders and pushes you towards the other group of students.

You swallow dryly as your loafers carry you forwards. One of the students, dark haired and grinning, leans in and says something to Bradley while his eyes remain on you. Bradley chuckles as it and shakes his head, dropping his suitcase onto the scale.

Glancing back over your shoulder, trembling starting in your chest and spreading along your nerves, Malcolm smiles and nods for you to go ahead. He’s tanned already from the start of the golf season, cheeks dimpling, straight brown hair falling into his eyes a little. He’s going to have to cut it once he starts working for real, but you like the boyish look for now.

Pausing, you take your time to look him over. Taller than you by just a few inches, strong from his years of baseball, slim from his years of track, smooth skin and blue eyes that are just to die for.

Your gaze falls down to the rock on your finger. The knowledge that if you can withstand these two months, you’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted is enough to finally make you turn back around and set your suitcase down on the scale.

The next twenty four hours will be the worst. Your itinerary, which is wrinkled near the bottom from the stream of tears that had been pouring onto it the night before, tells you that it’s about seventeen hours of travel. A short flight, first, two Newark airport. Then, a six hour flight to London. Finally, a two hour flight to the north of Italy.

Bradley settles into his seat on the flight to Newark and glances behind him to search for his seven students. Three sitting together, two sitting together, Luke’s at his side and then you’re sitting on your own between an elderly married couple. His lips quirk to himself as he turns back around. It’s only fair that karma pays him back a little bit.

He’s less than thrilled about you being here. It just doesn’t seem fair that someone missed out on this opportunity because your daddy was able to pull some strings. You don’t give a shit about this trip. So, if it’s miserable for you, Bradley really couldn’t care less.

You rub at your temples, the volume of your Walkman turned up as loud as it will go, Joy Division blasting in your ears as the Houseman’s lean over you to argue with each other. Lifting your head, you find Bradley soundly asleep, arms folded over his chest and lips parted slightly — perfectly comfortable aside from his knees pressing into the seat in front.

He couldn’t care less when you’re panicking in the lounge at Newark airport, thinking you’ve lost your passport. Or when you’re stuck next to a screaming baby on the flight to London. Or, when on the flight from London to Turun, there’s such bad turbulence that the first thing you do upon landing is rush down the steps and puke.

“Oh, here — did you want some water?” Abigail offers. Bradley doesn’t know her that well other than the fact that she is the only person he knows who has never gotten less than an A in his class, and that she’s probably more intelligent than he is. And apparently, more of an empath. She rubs her hand along your shoulders soothingly and offers you the unopened plastic bottle.

You step back from the trash can, letting go of your hair and groaning quietly, blinking the tears from her eyes.

“Thank you,” You seem surprised by her kindness, taking the bottle from her slowly like she might have snatched it back from you. Gratitude. That surprises Bradley. “That’s really sweet of you.”

It’s not your fault that you were taught early on that there’s no such thing as a free handout, or that selflessness is a myth. Abigail comes from a much different background. Her mom does soup kitchens and charity drives, she taught all three of her children the meaning of kindness early on. Your mother taught you the value of womanhood early on.

“It’s no big deal.” She smiles, reaching into the pocket of her light washed jeans and pulling out a packet of gum. “You can keep this.”

Bradley watches the exchange, then checks his watch again. As much as it seems fair to watch you suffer, the last thing he needs is for you to call your father screaming on the first night.

“Alright. It’s a twenty minute ride to the hotel, there’s a bus for us outside. Are you going to be alright?”

Exhausted, your ears are ringing and this is the most professional that he has acted all day; you know not to push your luck with him. You nod weakly at him. He can’t help but notice how colourless you’re starting to look at baggage claim, and how much trouble he’s going to be in if you die on the first day. You chew tiredly on the peppermint gum, trying to pretend that the motion of just chewing alone isn’t enough to still make you queasy.

You should be in Malcolm’s television room, right now. Sitting curled into his side with your legs across his lap, watching some action movie that will keep his attention long enough for the two of you to finish it. Closing your eyes and picturing that you’re there just doesn’t cut it.

Stepping out of the airport, an iron-tight grip on your suitcase handle, you inhale deeply. The fresh air makes you feel a little less light headed. You sip slowly at the water. Everyone keeps looking at you.

It’s not half as warm as you had expected it to be. When you had pictured Italy, you had pictured vineyards and thick heat. Tonight, you’re in a city, and it’s actually a little cold even with the thick denim jacket you’re wearing. The chill helps breakthrough that sick, sweaty feeling that you’ve got going on though, which is nice.

“Mr. Bradshaw!”

Bradley’s lips turn up into a big grin as he locks sights on the short, bald man that’s grinning at him from in front of a black minivan.

“Pasquale!” He chuckles as he speaks, dwarfing the older man as they hug. You’ve never seen him that pleased to see anyone. “How’s it going?”

“Same old, same old,” Pasquale shrugs, giving Bradley a knowing wink. They share a laugh again. “Big group this year.”

Bradley turns to look at all of you over his shoulder, then nodding slowly. His gaze lingers on you. “Uh-huh. They’re a little tired.”

“Well, then, let’s get the kids to bed.” Pasquale jokes. He grabs the handle and tugs open the middle door to the van, then walks around to tug open the back doors.

Everyone hands their bags to him, then finds a seat inside. Making the most of the fresh air whilst you’ve got it, you’re intentionally the last.

Pasquale grunts as he lifts your suitcase off of the ground, struggling with the weight of it. Bradley shoots him a look and then grabs your arm, stopping you before you can step into the van.

“Sit up front. In case you puke.” He instructs, grabbing the passenger side door and pulling it open for you. Waiting for the ground to just swallow you whole, you nod weakly again.

Bradley was right. It’s a twenty minute ride to the hotel. He just hadn’t warned you that it was going to be the longest twenty minutes of your life. Turin has a tram system and passing over the tracks, and the bumpy roads makes your stomach churn. Pasquale tries to make conversation but there’s not really much you have to say. Everyone behind you is in pretty good spirits, looking out of the windows and talking about the city.

“Alright, everyone gets a roommate — are we going to be mature about this and buddy up, or do I have to treat you like you’re six?”

You’re blinking at him now, knowing that no one here will want to share with you, hoping that you get assigned a room so that you can finally pass out. The hotel is ninety years old and it looks older, cracks through the paint and cobwebs in the corners, but you just can’t find it in you to care. Dust fills your nose and makes you blink like you’re going to sneeze. The entire place smells like cigarettes. Speaking of cigarettes, Bradley’s just itching for a couple of seconds away from you guys.

Everyone around you buddies up. Your eyes widen, finding that there are only seven students.

“Uh, no, no — you two cannot share a room. I’m not taking anybody home pregnant. Luke, you’re with me.” Bradley snaps his fingers, frowning sternly. You turn your head and watch as he takes his arm off of the girl’s shoulders. She whines, frowning at Bradley. “That goes for all of you actually. You’re all adults, just — I’m not your dad, don’t make me act like it. Okay?”

“Okay…” Come a few begrudging agreements as Luke sulks over to Bradley.

“Cool. That leaves you two.” Bradley decides, nodding to you and the girl who just had her evening’s plans ruined. You swallow, nudging the toe of your shoe into the faded red carpet under you. “Okay. I’m going to give you your keys, there’s one per room so don’t be a dick and lock your roommate out. Don’t lose your key, there’s a twenty euro replacement fee and I’m not paying it.”

What no one had mentioned to you about Italy was the stairs. You’re still fairly naive about it as you drag your suitcase up to the third floor — you’ve got a long summer ahead of you. Your room is at the furthest end of the hall. Bradley makes his location known to all of you, and then suggests that you try to get as much sleep as you can.

“Dibs on the bed by the window.” Your roommate, who you now know to be named Robin because of a conversation you heard as you were coming up the stairs, declares before the door is even open.

You’re far too tired to argue, and not really bothered by that kind of thing anyway.

It’s a twin room with dated paint on the walls and patterned sheets, heavy curtains covering the window and faded carpet under foot. You swallow softly as you look around you. Quickly, you realise what’s missing.

“What? — Not what you’re used to?” Robin teases as she lifts her bag and drops it onto the bed by the window. It’s most definitely not what you’re used to. Your mother wouldn’t touch this place with a ten foot pole and your father dismantles businesses like this one just for the fun of it.

Still, the decor isn’t your biggest issue. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Huh,” She stops to look around the room, frowning, then shrugs and turns back to her case. She unzips it and flips the top open. Your eyes land immediately on the box of trojans at the top of her belongings. “I don’t know. Ask Brad.”

You’ve never heard anyone call him Brad, or heard him introduce himself as that. You don’t like it. But, you turn and walk down the hall anyway. All that you want right

After approximately thirty seconds of peace, Bradley winces at the knocking on his door. Something in his gut tells him that it’s you, or something you’ve done, before he even answers.

“What?”

The force with which he swings the door open makes you jump. You almost shrink away from him, pushing your sweaty hair back off of your face, then remember everything that your father taught you about being taken seriously. You swallow, straightening up again, “Our room doesn’t have a bathroom in it.”

“There’s one at the end of the hall. It’s right next to your room.” Bradley answers, resting his hand on the chipped paint over the doorframe, nodding his head in the vague direction of it. He watches your face change in realization. You look more sick now than you had when you were hunched over that bin.

“Oh. It’s… a shared bathroom?”

“Yeah. It’s for the floor.” Bradley’s tone tells you that he thinks you’re even more stupid than you feel. You don’t even share a bathroom in your own home. Safety is the first thing that crosses your mind.

“What if someone tries to get in while I’m in there?”

“Locks are still a thing here.”

Luke snorts in amusement from inside of their room behind him.

“I know that,” Your tone slowly starts to stray from sheepish to snappy. It’s been a long day and being made fun of isn’t how you would like to end it. “But, I really need to take a shower and I—“

“Luke, go stand outside of the door until she’s done.” Bradley’s already turning away from the door, bored by his conversation with you and starting to pry open the buttons on his blue shirt.

“Me? — Why do I have to do it?” Luke frowns from his perch at the end of the twin bed closest to the door.

“Because I want her to shut up and quit whining at me, and you owe me a favour. Remember?”

It seems unprofessional for Bradley to be close enough to one of his students that they’re now owing each other personal favours. That’s something to think about another time. You shift back awkwardly as Luke pushes himself up from his bed and starts towards you.

“Alright. Go get your stuff.”

Exhausted, you’re on the verge of blacking out the entire time that you’re standing under the stream of water. It’s lukewarm and the pressure is poor, but it helps.

You brush your teeth quickly and dress yourself in your pyjamas. Sitting on the floor, Luke falls backwards into the bathroom as you tug it open.

Now laying on his back, you catch his gaze starting to wander. Even about to fall asleep standing, you’re awake enough to jump back before he can sneak a peek up your nightdress.

“Pig.” You mutter, stepping around him without thanking him for standing guard. He watches you wander back to your room and slam the door shut, then pushes himself up laughing.

He walks calmly back to his room and lets himself in, swinging the door shut behind him. Bradley’s on the bed by the window, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a stack of six books, all opened to different pages sitting in front of him.

“D’you think she’s really going to make it two whole months?”

Bradley looks up, scratching an itch on his bare shoulder and then taking the cigarette from his mouth. He exhales, then shakes his head with a breathy chuckle.

“Buddy, the sooner that she calls her dad to come and get her, the better.” He mutters, flicking ash from the cigarette into an empty water bottle and picking up his pen to scrawl a few notes onto the page of one of the books.

Luke drops down onto his bed and tucks his arms behind his bed. He wishes all of his professors were as cool as Bradley is. “She wears a nightdress like my freaking grandmother.”

Bradley scoffs, taking a long draw on the cigarette, his dog tags dangling between his collarbones as he flicks through the paperwork for the trip. His lips quirk up slightly as he shoots his friend and student a playful look, “Well, what does your grandmother wear?”

Luke pulls a face and then shrugs, running his hands through his feathery, raven coloured hair. “I don’t know, it comes down to like here. Hers was this cute little yellow with cap sleeves and a heart shaped kinda neckline.”

Bradley’s smirk grows around the thin cigarette as he looks over. “Didn’t you say your Mom was one of six kids?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Maybe your grandmother was onto something with those little nightgowns, huh?” Bradley taunts, chuckling and turning back to work while Luke gasps in horror at his side.

“You’re sick.” Luke complains, amused but playfully offended as he turns onto his side and presses his face into his pillow. Bradley just laughs to himself.

The next morning, you can’t help but notice that Luke seems to have modeled himself after Bradley. Both of them are wearing nearly the same thing. A half buttoned, cotton shirt — Bradley’s is a pale yellow, Luke’s is a deeper blue — and five inch shorts.

Once again, you’re late, he’s overdressed.

You’re in a cute little sundress with a sweet little purse in your shoulder and a pair of expensive, Dior sunglasses on your face.

“Did everyone eat?” Bradley asks, tucking his Ray-bans into the opening in his shirt by their arm. He’s got a baseball cap on today, his auburn curls peeking out from under it. You bet Luke’s pretty upset that he didn’t get the memo on hats. A chorus of quiet yes’ come from your class. “Good. Because lunch isn’t for another five hours and we’ve got some walking to do.

“Now, remember,” He pushes his hands into his pockets and looks straight at you. “You’re a big group of kids in a foreign city, so watch your stuff because someone will try to take it if you’re not careful.”

That seems like common sense. With Pasquale as your tour guide, you’re led through the streets of Turin. Bradley already seems to know his way around well enough, walking ahead of everybody else, studying the streets as he passes. This is his sixth summer consecutively spent in Europe, his fourth year spent in Italy. Turning his face towards the sun, indirectly looking up at the laundry hanging between apartments over his head, he misses it here more than anything.

As much as this is a research trip for himself and his work, it’s also somewhat of a cultural exchange. So, the first stop is a museum near the centre of the city. Today’s itinerary starts with this place, the museum of national something something. You cross your arms over your chest and look over the detailed architecture. It’s pretty, but you can’t pretend that you wouldn’t rather be sat on a rooftop in Manhattan with your girlfriends on this sunny morning.

Although, back there it would be the middle of the night, barely 3am. It still feels like 3am for you, you would have happily spent another five hours in bed just to avoid returning to that shared bathroom.

“Who knows what this place is?” Bradley stops and turns on his heel. Everyone seems to know at once, spouting off the name of the museum whilst you’re still standing there with your arms folded. “Cool. And who can tell me what Risorgimento is?”

“It was the nineteenth-century Italian movement of unification.” Abigail answers calmly, tucking a braid behind her ear. She’s well prepared for the day, wearing her backpack on her front so that she can keep an eye on it.

The streets are busy already, the centre of Turin at almost 8am is bustling with people trying to get to work and tourists trying to get to the sights.

In retrospect, it was a bad place to stop. Standing in front of a big museum with a group of students. It’s practically a target. You, with those fucking Dior sunglasses on your face, are a target. The man isn’t dressed like a thief. He’s wearing blue jeans and a green Ralph Lauren polo, walking quickly like he has somewhere to be. You don’t take any mind as he bumps into you, inhaling quickly as you’re surprised by the impact, but then stepping out of his way without much notice.

Bradley has watched as the man had sped up, knocking his shoulder into yours and curling his hand around the strap of your bag. With one swift tug, he has the strap off of your shoulder quickly. Your brows draw together, surprised and confused as you turn to look.

Immediately, Bradley steps forwards and catches hold of the back of the man’s navy shirt. He tugs hard and pulls the man back swiftly before you’ve even registered what was happening. Bradley tells him something in Italian, the man lets go of your bag accordingly and then sneers at your professor. He mutters something back that you don’t understand Bradley lifts his hands and shoves hard at his shoulders.

The man stumbles, sneering at you as he turns and hightails it away from your group.

“What did I tell you? — Watch your stuff.” Bradley mutters in annoyance, like it’s your fault that you were almost mugged. Your mouth opens to back with an immediate protest. He narrows his eyes at you. “I’m not going to babysit you this whole trip.”

“No one’s asking you to.” You bite back.

“Hey, he did a nice thing. Maybe stop being such a bitch.”

Bradley and you both turn to look at the same time, finding Robin tucked under Luke’s arm and looking at you like you just kicked her. You gaze darts quickly back to Bradley, waiting for him to scold her.

Instead, he just looks at you like it’s all your fault and then turns away, calling for the group to follow him inside. You flinch as someone bumps into your other arm, finding Pasquale smiling at you.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.” You answer Bradley’s friend begrudgingly.

He’s older, maybe in his late forties or his early fifties. A little shorter than you, with a seemingly perpetual smile on his face. He guides you after your class with his hand on the elbow. “Seems like Italy doesn’t agree with you much,” You’re not certain if that’s a polite way of him saying that Bradley doesn’t like you much, you leave him without an answer anyway. “Stick with me, I’ll help you find your feet, miss.”

…

If you’re wondering what her nightgown looked like, it’s the yellow one on the right

tags:

@thedroneranger @batdanceq @wkndwlff @littlemissobsessedwitholdermen @sunflowerziva @cassiemitchell @himbos-on-ice @bradshawseresinbabe @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @thecitysgraveyard

[gossipgirlgasoline]

gossip girl here, your one and only source into the ultra-rich, scandalous lives of race car drivers of formula 1.

hi loves! our first post!!!! ahhh!!!!! foremost, happy race week in australia! oscar piastri, daniel riccardo, and notably valtteri bottas’ home race, of course. its been such a hard week without racing hasn’t it?? i know it has been for me. thankfully, racing is back in melbourne for the weekend<3

before i start, if ur not into truly gossipy stuff— THIS IS NOT FOR YOU!! this will go into territory of wag gossip, silly rumours, and other cheesy stuff like that. you have been warned.

onto this weeks gossip !!!

everybody knows 18-year-old prodigy ollie bearman, who made his f1 debut with scuderia ferrari just two weeks ago in the scrupulous circuit that is the jeddah corniche circuit filling in for carlos sainz jr, sick from appendicitis. (hopefully this doesnt cause another chain of events like a certain driver whos number is 23, knock on wood) the academy driver started 11th on the grid and finished in the points, all the way to 7th, despite being such a hard circuit and also having very little experience with real formula 1 cars.

what not everybody knows about is his girlfriend, estelle— formerly silly_lettuce on all social media. truly, she is gorgeous. a picturesque couple, no?

estelle ogilvy langinier manning, (allegedly) is 21 years old law student out of london. the couple ‘hard launched’ from ollie’s instagram story a couple months ago. (picture is from his instagram) from the crumbs ive picked up from my dear friends on insta and tiktok, ollie is not the only racing driver she’s ever dated. ive been hearing through the grapevine that she dated f2 drivers zak o’sullivan since they were neighbours in the past and has also been with franco colapinto, confirmed(? texts could be fake) by herself through a message thread on instagram.

aside from racing drivers, there has been more rumors of her being with a guy from boy band, as well as a finance man.

with a simple instagram search of ‘sillylettuce,’ you will get a video credited to her old account with her alleged ‘finance boyfriend.’ this search will also get you this picture on the left, uploaded by downtown.chix in december of 2020.

left picture heaves largely compared to the right, taken from an archived picture from her now deactivated instagram account. 🫡

if we bring out search back around tiktok and do another search of silly lettuce, you’ll be met with a video from user sunnymonday on tiktok, going by the name india rawsthorn. the video is a trend from 2021 ‘rating my friends dance moves’

estelle earned herself a spot in the video, sporting a very different look than. 🤨🤨🤨🤨

this is estelle— India has many videos of estelle on her account

some people think its plastic surgery, maybe a drastic weight loss journey. whatever it might be, this isn’t the only thing that raises a couple eyebrows since thanks to the very intrigued people of the internet, we have since found out she started studying at durham uni in 2018. unless she is a young sheldon type prodigy who started college at 11, this would mean she is 24/25 now.

shortly after people started finding out, she ‘coincidentally’ got hacked. yikes!

*i can confirm this one is real— i saw it in real time😭

if you try to look her account on tiktok and instagram up now, nothing will pop up. mm.. following the discovery of her age, she immediately (allegedly) changed her information on linkedin. 🤔🤔🤔 how do you guys feel about this? i have a theory right here from one of my mutuals from twitter.

“Wooooww Estelle is really going down the road of saying that "we're obsessed"

her obsession is finding someone famous, and potentially rich to climb the social ladder of fame

I'm not trying to shame her about her plastic surgery, but it's obvious that some type of touchup was done and there's nothing wrong with that but I get the sense that she's trying to hide that she isn't all natural when in reality there has been something drastically done”

what’s your guy’s opinions? leave them below😘 my inbox is always open as well as my dms, so if u ever need to talk or want to chat about my posts, hmu! (tips are always accepted too)

until next time race-watchers, xoxo, gossipgirlgasoline

[xshyhana]

The weekend I am most looking forward has arrived

🏎️🇸🇦 home race in Jeddah Corniche circuit!

That’s a poster of my team @mclaren under the incredible paddock lights 🌴

Overtake the Future!

[as-you-think]

How do you feel about battlecars? I personally love the aesthetic of a chopped up sedan made to look like a mad max extra

I fucking love battle cars! Whether it's an Outback with cut fenders and some big knobby tires or a Bentley that looks like it's ready to invade a small country I think they're so cool. I especially love cars that achieve the battle car aesthetic for practical reasons like the Rolls-Royce Corniche that competed at Dakar or Helge Meyer's Camaro he used to deliver humanitarian aid during the Yugoslav Wars.

[kestrelteens]

Hi !!! Thanks for all your sharings, it's amazing you're amazing :) Can I ask you wcif the corniche from one of your last post (the grocery store/cafe/restaurant) please ? Thank you very much !

Hiii! ^^ Thank you so much! ♥

I have linked that cornice at the bottom of this post! :)

[supermaks]

M [max/charles] on ao3 | re-published 2024-02-26

relationship study, unreliable timeline, unreliable narrator, time skips, reckless driving, unhealthy relationships, 2023 szn compliant, ‘something’s cosmic’ by angel Olsen 🔭🔮

before we draw

Need has a strange grip on him lately. Need filters through everything else, slips through the cracks and fills him up to the brim. It doesn’t spill, though, not until he has Max’s hands on him. It’s Max’s permission that he seeks, the wet glide of his lips and the press of his body, all-encompassing and hurried but also disciplined. Thorough. No need to rush. Rushing is for the gokart tires burnt down to the rubber and rain splatters on foggy lids that don’t close so well. Faulty equipment given to children who wanted to see death and more often than not, did. That was the time for rushing. If you’d ask Charles, his time is running out. He’s on a schedule, still, while Max collects what he calls 'bonuses'. No, Max has no need to rush. Outside the track, Max only chases what he wants. He never races, either. He chases right up until Charles realizes it’s futile to pretend he hasn’t been looking over his shoulder expecting to find him there. Then, they make a conscious bargain of mutually assured destruction. They draw. Need spills. And takes everything else with it. A great flood. 

Charles is walking home, or trying to, anyway, stumbling through narrow, dimly lit streets that he knows to be empty at that hour of the night, drunk and moody and overall a bit of a pitiful sight. He’s going on an adventure. Sometimes he gets into these funks, especially in Monaco. The music becomes too loud, and the arm around his waist isn’t welcome anymore, the smell of hard liquor is nauseating, and he wants to slap the vape out of his friend’s mouth and step on it.

He’s not a dramatic person. Not really. The solution to this is usually simple. He leaves, alone, or asks his girlfriend to go home with him. Tonight, he’s alone.

He hears the Porsche before he sees it, the engine’s sweet, gentle purr slow to a stop next to him, terrible EDM blasting from inside, before the window rolls down and Max wolf-whistles from the driver's seat.

“Oh my goodness, it’s Charles Leclerc.” He mocks, high-pitched and annoying. Then he laughs. There’s no one else in the car with him. He’s in boxer briefs, his shirt is on backwards, and his hair looks like it’s been tugged at. Charles wants to climb inside and check if his thighs are as warm as they look. They look warmer than his face feels. He settles for a smile. 

“Hello. How are you?”

Max’s grin grows like Charles said something funny. “I’m fantastic, man. It’s a lovely night.” Charles leans against the Porsche door, even though that’s rude, it’s a Porsche, and finally catches the haziness in Max’s eyes, his full blown pupils and bitten lips, gooey almost, slick with spit. Someone’s been kissing him, blowing smoke into his lungs. Charles licks his own, slowly, and Max’s hands squeeze around the steering wheel. Max is on an adventure, too. Charles has half a mind to make him chase tonight. 

“Not so lovely for me.” He comments. “See, I’m too hot, mate. Too fucking hot." 

“Ah, yeah. You need a ride home? It’s not a problem.” He says. Charles almost rolls his eyes. Easy come. Hard go.

Then, again, they’re the same.

“No, not home.” He says, affronted, almost. Charles looks across the street, checks both ends. He drops into the passenger seat like he’s done it a hundred times before. If he shuts the door too hard, Max doesn’t mind. He seems happy enough that Charles cut their little ritual short. It hasn’t even been that long. Max should count his lucky stars. God knows he’s got plenty. “Alright, then, drive me somewhere, racing driver.” Charles says. He meets Max’s hooded eyes with his own, faux-wide ones. “Oh, Max. Max, I know. Let’s do La Corniche. Whichever you prefer. You know what I mean, yes? Like, route nationale, by the sea. It's so pretty at night." 

Max takes a deep breath. “Yes, I know. I do live here.” Charles looks back outside so he can hide his smile.

“Oh, really? Sorry. We barely see each other."

“Monaco is such a big town, mate, 's easy to miss.” Max says under his breath. He fiddles with the radio for a bit, picks another playlist, a dirtier, matured selection, and lowers the volume, like Charles doesn’t know what he’s up to. Max does certain things, to focus. To calibrate, not just his car, but Charles, too, like an engineer. Rile him up, drag him back down. “You look nice, by the way.” Max adds, nonchalantly. He lays one hand on the back of Charles' neck and squeezes. “‘had fun? Where did you go?”

Charles hiccups on a breathless little laugh, and then another, louder one. He is sticky, red and disheveled. His hair is a mess. But Max has jerked off watching him wash yellow puke off his sleeves in a dirty bathroom sink. He’s seen Charles after maman got too bold with her scissors and ran his fingers through his hair with a stupid look on his face. Max is the easiest hookup of his life. And the most complicated. “Oh, you wouldn’t know the place. Max. La Grand Corniche, then. Allez.” Charles says, instead of, you’re so sweet. Don’t bother.

He’s not a dramatic person.

Once upon a time, he didn’t think about Max’s hands at all. Definitely not the way he does now, how they look on the steering wheel of a sports car, how they feel, inside him, barely outside, inside again, wet, dry, wrapped around his cock, covered with tape, and the marks they leave behind, the weight they carry, hours later, when Max is gone but Charles isn’t, and nothing lingers quite like being held by someone who could break him, and never does. Never rushes. Takes his time. A racing driver who takes his time. 

•••

Go karts are quiet before the start. Charles only qualified below third a handful of times, and one of those times, Max didn’t beat his lap, either. It wasn’t often that they were next to each other. Behind each other, in front of each other, but it was strange, and startling, to glance at the space to his right and find Max’s head already turned in his direction. Waiting.

Max held up his glove, and Charles watched as he brought his hand up to his own helmet and tapped on it, twice. Charles mirrored him, instinctively, and realized he’d forgotten to shut his visor.

He flickered it closed. There was a hint of something scary, there, something reckless, and oddly satisfying. Kind of like standing too close to open flame. Flame that you own, that belongs to you. Flame you can lick off skin, and spit down a cupid's bow.  A Strange feeling. It'll pass. They raced. Poorly, by all accounts. Charles isn’t sure who won that time, if they finished the circuit at all.

Some weekends it only took seeing the CRG motorhome to get a twitch in his jaw. It'll pass. 

He could find out, if he wanted, about their gokart classifications. Maman kept all his karting notebooks, even the stupid Spiderman ones. He hopes Max never asks to see those, although they’ve spoken about it. Max has vivid memories of Charles sitting next to his father in snack bars all over Europe, scribbling away after races. He told Charles he thought it was ‘impressive’ for a kid to have such an analytical mind. Charles was writing mean things about him. Whole pages. Sometimes racing had nothing to do with it. Just fucking mean shit. Big lips. Gay. Gay hands. My friends think you’re a cocksucker. I agree. If Max ever reads those pages--Charles doesn't know what he'd do. Max is a stranger he knows all too well. For a long time Charles made the mistake of underestimating just how fucking crazy Jos Verstappen's son was. Jos Verstappen's son would skim through Charles' Spiderman notebooks and sigh and purse his lips. Those fucking lips of his.

They’re adults now. Max chased to claim and he claimed Charles the moment they met. Why he still bothers to chase him, Charles doesn't know.

A week after the tournament, back in Monaco, Charles noticed a tiny crack on his practice helmet. He tapped on it with his finger. His heart beat faster, and he tapped on it again. He flickered his visor shut, then opened it once more.

It didn’t pass.

•••

Charles puts his head out of the window, then his shoulders and finally his waist. He holds onto the roof of the car for balance and keeps one leg hooked under the seat, just in case. He’s not that drunk anymore.

Warm air hits his face, thick and suffocating like the blow of an exhaust pipe. Max says something, probably a little annoyed, get down, but Charles isn’t listening. He takes a deep breath and screams, hard enough to make his throat hurt, “Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck you. Que veux-tu de moi? “His voice breaks. Charles heaves, laughs, tries again. “Fuck you.”

He gets no answer, nothing but the quiet echo of the night, the infinite stretch of the sea, a platform of darkness held suspended in some planet, of some universe, that is both uncaring as it is merciless. Charles hits the roof with a closed fist. “You see?” He yells. “You see what I get, Max? I get nothing.”

He tries to breathe in some fresh air, catch some of the cooler breeze. No relief. It’s too warm.

The car is too fucking warm when he slides back inside.

He slumps down on his seat with sweat pouring down his back, his shorts rucked up into the crease of his thighs. He spreads his legs under the glove box, arches his spine against the sticky leather, panting. He puts his hand on the ventilators and feels nothing. The AC isn’t on. Why the hell isn’t the AC on? Max is a fucking furnace.

“Can you, sweetheart, please—can you turn on the air conditioner? I’m begging you.” Charles heaves. He reaches for the touch screen and Max lets go of the handbrake to grab his wrist and hold it still. Max isn’t looking at him. His eyes are glued to the road, red but still watchful. Charles’ panic morphs into an urge of a different kind. Ah, but that is what he came for. That unshakable focus. All to himself.

“It’s on. 'have to wait a bit, yeah.” Max says, voice curt. He blows out a breath and adds, "You could've fucking dented my car, mate." 

“Aw, but it's too hot. I'm not thinking right. Look. Regarde moi, putain." 

Max huffs, drags a hand across his face. He looks at Charles, finally, and smiles. “I am. I like you like this.” Charles purses his lips and pretends that doesn’t make him blush.

His heartbeat quickens, still, as Max’s foot gets heavier on the pedal. They go faster on the straight. His stomach drops to his gut. “You're not angry?" He leans in to kiss the corner of Max’s lips again, but Max tilts his head. It catches him off-guard, and his heart soars. He makes a noise that Max definitely hears over the music and he doesn’t care.

Every time they kiss Charles forgets himself. It’s never like that, with other people. He's addicted to it, the ease with which they fall into each other. The way Max's spit coats his tongue and his lips, and when they part for air he takes Charles’ weight over the console and lets Charles hide his face in the curve of his shoulder. He lets Charles touch his waist, his stomach, his chest, every part of him he can reach, even the dampness under his arms. Max keeps dragging his hand over Charles' back, up and down, and it’s grounding and exhilarating all at once.

Charles does have a setup. And Max knows his setups. 

•••

The last time they slept together, Max left his phone behind in Charles’ living room, and Charles tiptoed into his apartment hallway and waited for the elevator to come back up. Max stumbled out of the cabin with the grace of a baby giraffe, face tired, usual spit-bitten smile, oh, Jesus, thank you, my fucking car told me, mate, because like, it didn’t connect to the blueftooh, and Charles almost asked him to stay. Almost. He thinks he might, one day. It feels that way, like they’re building into something truly terrifying. And when Charles does ask him, stay, and Max says no, because he has a family, and Charles has a girlfriend—then maybe that’s when it finally ends. Chase over. Nothing more to offer. 

Or maybe Max says yes. He stays. And saying yes would mean something like, I’ll keep chasing you for as long as you'll let me. I’ll chase you forever. In Monza, in a red racing suit, what could that possibly fucking mean? Jos Verstappen' son, what could he possibly fucking mean?

Charles likes to pull things apart so he can put them back together. Like puzzle pieces. Max’s piece never fits because the whole point is to build around him.

•••

It’s late. He’s in a funk. Max has terrible taste in music.

Charles buries his hand between Max’s thighs and squeezes Max’s cock through his briefs “You should probably stop the car.” He whispers in Max’s ear.

The breaks screech with a sharp turn of the wheel and the car comes to a sudden halt on the side of the road. The world tilts, spins, then freezes. He fucking drifted, the asshole. Max turns the engine off, and the radio goes with it. He keeps the headlights on, though. Red and blue beacons in the dark, pointed at the ocean right below.

The cliffs are empty. He starts shimmying out of his gross shorts, max starts tugging his own shirt over his neck, and there’s nothing in this world that could stop them from coming together tonight. Nothing. Charles knows that, even if nothing else. It’s the only truth he knows, has known, since he was a kid with an open lid and Max signaled him to flick it shut. Max lowers back Charles’ seat without much finesse and Charles opens his legs to accommodate him. It's a Porsche, not a truck. He doesn't fit. But he's Max. That's not his problem. 

•••

It didn't pass. 

[untouchvbles]

Rolls Royce Corniche at Cassandra's Motorsports Open House (2023) in Pewaukee, WI.

[boobo13cambridge]

Release Schedule: The Summer We Were Young | Kylian Mbappé

Hello, girlies! Voici the release schedule for my little summer fic ☀️⛱️ I'm super excited for this one cuz the main character features a South Asian baddie named Naaz.

This fic is quite dear to me because I've never seen fanfic where the main character is of South Asian descent and I wanted to take one for the team and write one

Compared to the other fic, this one is much lighter and has more of a summer vibe and I might finish this before the other one lmao.

I hope you guys enjoy this story and I can't wait to see you guys as we walk read through Naaz and Kylian's epic summer romance ❤️❤️‍🔥

P.S. The chapter titles are inspired by Justin Timberlake's song Summer Love.

Chapter One. Ridin' in the drop-top with the top down

May 2, 2023

Naaz loses her shit and books a one-way flight to Nice. Maybe she should’ve thought this through a bit more?

PSG wins the Ligue 1 title but Kylian can’t seem to muster up the strength to join in the festivities. So, without telling anyone, he leaves for the South. Maybe he should’ve told his mom?

Chapter Two. Tell me where you're from, what you do, what you like

May 7, 2023

Naaz realizes she never wants to leave this paradise so spontaneously decides to apply for a work visa. Reality check: it’s not that easy. And who the hell is this weirdo who keeps staring at her from the opposite balcony?

Kylian tries to enjoy the beautiful summer weather in Nice when all of a sudden his peace and quiet gets interrupted by a loud voice swearing from the other balcony. Who the hell is this woman and what kind of French is that?

Chapter Three. Betcha we can have some fun, girl

May 12, 2023

Naaz gets a call from back home which dampens her mood. Her parents are beyond furious but she stays firm in her decisions. Enough is enough. She decides the best remedy is crystal clear water and a nice tan, and of course, the annoying brat happens to show up at the same time.   

Kylian goes on social media and is once again faced with an onslaught of critics who can’t seem to stop themselves from portraying him as an overrated evil money-hungry brat. He decides the best remedy is some alone time at the beach when he spots the fiery foreigner who seems to possess the ability to lift his mood without even lifting a finger. 

Chapter Four. Whichever way you wanna run, girl

May 17, 2023

Naaz doesn’t know which screw in her brain got loose which made her agree to Kylian’s brilliant plan of sneaking into the crumbling ruins of a Roman amphitheatre but she just couldn’t stand the mocking smirk on his face. Kylian for his part has never felt this alive since winning against Marseilles in the Vélodrome.  

Chapter Five. 'Cause we can it do fast, fast, slow

May 22, 2023

Naaz promises herself to stay away from the footballer who is nothing but trouble. However, it seems like the Frenchman doesn't is allergic to leaving her alone.

Kylian doesn’t know why he can’t stay away from her despite her apparent annoyance at his presence. Perhaps a little ride down the famous La Grande Corniche road might change her mind. He finally got his license after all. 

[wishesofeternity]

“The queen (Cleopatra Selene II) and Juba arrived in Mauretania at the end of 25 BC, taking up residence at a place called Iol, on the coast (modern Cherchel in Algeria). It was originally a Carthaginian outpost that had been developed as a Mauretanian royal city in the second century BC. Its location probably had much to do with the presence of an island immediately offshore (the modern Corniche des Dahra) that provided a certain amount of shelter on a coast otherwise lacking it; except for this, the site of Iol is hardly propitious, with virtually no coastal plain and mountains rising high behind the city. Iol was probably in decline when the new monarchs arrived, and they chose to live there presumably because it lay roughly midway along the lengthy Mediterranean coast of Mauretania.  In the emerging fashion of the era, Iol was renamed Kaisareia, or Caesarea, honoring Augustus; cities with such names were founded by allied monarchs during much of the last quarter of the first century BC.

“...  Decayed Iol was rebuilt lavishly, with all kinds of marble used in constructing the royal city, including Italian, Greek, and African. How much Cleopatra Selene participated in this architectural transformation is not known—the city did include a temple to Isis, her mother’s alter ego—but her efforts are most apparent in the artistic program of the kingdom. As the exiled queen of Egypt, she took care to commemorate her heritage. She would have felt devoted to her mother’s legacy: at the time that she became queen, the demonization of Cleopatra VII was being vigorously asserted in contemporary Latin literature, and Cleopatra Selene would have taken no comfort in reading that her mother was merely the cowardly Egyptian mate of Antonius or that her death caused great rejoicing. As her only living descendant, she had not only the chance but the obligation to set the record straight by commemorating her mother at her new capital, especially through portrait sculpture.

“It may seem that she took a personal risk in promoting her mother’s heritage so vigorously, given the official opinion in Rome, but this suggests that the attitude toward Cleopatra VII was far more nuanced than is generally believed today, and the official point of view—mostly vividly represented in Augustan poetry—was essentially government propaganda. Moreover, Cleopatra Selene was a daughter of Antonius, whose other living descendants were still quite active in the political life of Rome. Her status—as well as the memory of her mother—is well shown on her coinage; a series of autonomous issues (without the name of her husband) having the legend “Kleopatra basilissa” demonstrates royal privileges separate from his. Some of these coins have the Nile crocodile, a reminder not only of Egypt but also of the coins issued in the 30s BC when she was named queen of the Cyrenaica. Juba also had his autonomous coins, indicating that the two monarchs acted independently of one another in certain undefined ways. There was also joint coinage, but even here the distinction between the two is apparent, since Juba’s legend is always in Latin while Cleopatra Selene’s is in   Greek—emphasizing the bilingual nature of the court—and the two monarchs appear on opposite sides of the coins, never together. In at least one case, Cleopatra is identified merely as “Selene,” a memory of the role that she was destined to play before the collapse of the Ptolemaic dynasty. Most significantly, she also issued coins with the legend “queen Cleopatra, daughter of Cleopatra,” strong evidence of her devotion to her mother’s memory.

“Cleopatra Selene’s emphasis on her Ptolemaic heritage was also apparent in the sculptural program at Caesarea. In addition to the expected portraiture of herself and her mother, there was an elaborate display of historical Egyptian sculpture, from as far back as the time of Tuthmosis I (reigned ca. 1504-1492 bc). There was also a statue of the Egyptian god Ammon, and he and Isis appeared on the obverse and reverse of the joint coinage, suggesting divine roles for the monarchs.  

Perhaps the most interesting sculpture at Caesarea is a statue of the Egyptian priest Petubastes IV, who died (according to the inscription) 31 July 30 BC at the age of sixteen. He was perhaps a cousin of Cleopatra Selene and, as a member of the priestly aristocracy, would have been the last indigenous claimant to the Egyptian throne. There is little doubt that he and Cleopatra Selene knew each other in Alexandria, and the setting up of his statue in Caesarea is the most tangible evidence of her memory of that last summer in Egypt. As much as possible, she sought both to establish herself as the last Ptolemaic queen and to create a new Alexandria at Caesarea, bringing Egyptian material culture from more than fifteen hundred miles away.”

- Duane W. Roller, “Cleopatra’s Daughter and Other Royal Women of the Augustan Era”

[evanox]

hiiii sara!! 💚💚 I hope I'm not too late for the ask game: 9, 13, 24, 26, 39 (anything works, doesn't have 2 be a yter)

(ask game) no such thing as too late w ask games <33 thank you so much for sending this in zeke!!

9; tell a story about your childhood i've had a pretty uneventful childhood so anything that comes to mind is very not That interesting.. I think a funny one was when we went to the corniche w/ a group of family friends for eid and i ran away from where they were staying to a playground that was pretty far off; one of the older boys snatched me away and brought me back to my worried mom but i was kicking a fuss about getting removed from the playground and i couldn't even get the boy's name right while complaining about him

13; what are you doing right now? juggling studies and catching up with COA....

24; what’s one thing you’re proud of yourself for? nothing really; i'd say i'm proud i made it to medical school but i can't stop feeling like it was a fluke;; hmm,, ig i'm proud of myself for trying to cook new things in the dorm--i've made mjaddara (brown lentil w rice), bukhari, mlukhiyeh, and the pasta's just a classic

26; fave colour and why? when i was a kid my fav color was black bc i thought it was Very Cool but now i can't pick bc many colors can be appreciated in different contexts,, like pink is super cute and gets too much hate! and blue is a comfortable color to wear! but ig at the end of the day.. black stays classic uwu

39; youtuber you’ve been obsessed with and why? the youtuber/streamer i was most recently obsessed with was exposed for being a groomer and i've never consumed much youtube after so.. i can't think of any popular people or CoNtEnT cReAtOrS that i could be obsessed with either so i'm sorryyy TT^TT

[sainzcentral]

INTRO

★ Personal Pinpoints

Name: Tea

Pronouns: She/He/They (Any!)

Country: USA [ew, I know /lh /hj]

★ F1 Favourites

Favourite Driver: Carlos Sainz Jr. [uh, duh!]

Favourite Teams: Ferrari, Williams, McLaren [I can’t choose just one…]

Favourite Track/Circuit(s): Circuit de Barcelona-Cataluña, Jeddah Corniche Circuit, Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez

Favourite Friendships: Carlando, Charlos, Maxiel, Simi, Jenson/Mark/Fernando. [idk what they’re called]

★ Miscellaneous Motorsports

I know a little bit about F1 Academy, but I’m not super well versed. I know the names of most of the drivers, but can’t really place them to their teams or programmes that well. Love Susie Wolff (and the rest of their fam) with all my heart.

Same goes for Indycar. There, though, I root for Arrow McLaren because I know and love their team (Alex, Pato, and David). [I MISS FELIX AUGHHH] [UPDATE: AUGHHHHH DAVID TOO 😖😖]

MotoGP I want to get more into, I really only know of Marc and Álex Márquez for Gresini.

★ Further Fandoms

I watch a lot of sitcoms and comedy/drama shows, I guess? Here’s some stuff I go crazy over, but will post more about on my main blog. [@doodles-bi-tea]

Ted Lasso

The Bear

Abbott Elementary

Community

Parks and Recreation

The Office

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Grishaverse [although I haven’t read all the books, only watched all of the Netflix show…]

Star Wars

Top Gun

Peacemaker

★ Horrendous Hobbies

Um. Some other stuff I do!

Writing [mostly fan fiction or randomly poetic prose, not sure if I’ll write for the drivers since I’ve never done RPF. we’ll see!]

Editing [sorry guys i’m a tiktok editor BAHDHDHDHDH — I also edit writing and occasionally images though, like my header and overall theme]

Drawing [not sure what I’d post on here, I haven’t been doing too much of it recently cause I’m always busy]

Singing [I doubt I’d ever post anything on here though]

★ Etc.

I’d like to think I’m pretty friendly??? Please feel free to interact!! My inbox is usually empty anyways LMAO

Talk to me about all your F1-related stuff. Send in asks, submit posts, etc., I’ll try to answer back asap. If you ask for a little drabble/imagine about any of the drivers (or related people [e.g. WAGs, management, celebrities, etc.]), I’ll do my best to write a little something for you!

[fallenbhaalspawn]

A (Probably Incomplete) List of non-Doppleganger/Changeling Bhaalists as of 1492

Death's Head of Bhaal - Glyria, Eni, Feona, M’alice, Blythe, Nov Shmoz, Spaulder, Derysia, Fustian

Unholy Assassin - Mitchia, Rycke

Reaper of Bhaal - Velki, Liya, Shrev, Vagga, Onilla, Clotilde, Skoan, Deera, Flo-Flo, Varneela, Gruntman, Snirr, Eglantine, Ogga, Hiila, Zerillis

Night Blade - Elda, Dellinjah Dax, Klarv, Vinnia, Abraxa, Majjo, Garithon, Comina, Flange, Maireadh, Majjo, Hervyl, Corniche, Zeironymous

Invoker of Bhaal - Horiss, Grice, Hivune, Grimlark, Ellice

Unknown - Cirian, Manglin’ Abby, Strangler Luke, Blood Mopper*, Hiskaal**

Devastator*** - Lizabett (Hobgoblin), Stropes (Hobgoblin)

*I don't think this is his name, but he doesn't have one

**From Descent to Avernus, deceased by/during 1492

***What the hell is a Devastator

[malakabdelbaki]

These two projects “Humans of Qasr El Nile” and “Corniche People” are by Mariam El Sayed and Judi Yassin. Street photography is the similar genre between the two projects.The street photographs of the Alexandria's beach and Qasr El Nile provide an intresting look into the different everyday lives of individuals in Egypt's different environments. The streets of Qasr El Nile, which are located in the center of Cairo, are filled with the life of a busy city. The photos show a vibrant environment with a background blend of both modern and old architecture. The life in the cities is characterized by a broad range of crowded marketplaces and historic sites.

On the other hand, Alexandria's beach offers a quite different atmosphere—one that is more peaceful. With the Mediterranean Sea as a the background, the photos depict a unique way of life, with the people engaging in outdoor activities,  and peaceful moments. The activities and lifestyles are just as different from the two places as the actual environment.But despite all of their distinctions, the human experience has a common theme.  Whether through social interactions in Cairo's busy streets or the shared enjoyment of entertainment at the beach in Alexandria, these collections of images capture moments of connection. The way such environments are contrasted draws attention to how diverse Egyptian societies are, with many lifestyles coexisting under the same cultural environment.  These street photographs basically tell a story through images of the contradictions and unity that people in Egypt experience on a daily basis, giving the viewers a social structure of Cairo. I don’t believe that anything could be done to improve those pictures.