#data card input | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leyavo · 2 months ago

Text

| I am my fathers daughter | 9 |

💖Dad!Price & Daughter!reader, eventual Soap x reader.

PART NINE: John Price hasn’t seen or heard from his daughter in over a year, but that changes when she calls him one night asking for help. 2.6k+words

[18+] MDNI | TW: hurt/angst/mentions of abuse/ complicated father-daughter relationship/ mentions of drug use

Previous parts of -> [Series Masterlist]

🔈Readers view of John is different, he’s come and gone in her life etc so she thinks he’s not that great. So don’t send me hate

The first of November, you stare at the bank balance on the cash machine. Is this the amount the Captain was sending your mum each month?? No wonder she never gave you a penny. If your mum gave it to you growing up you wouldn’t have struggled so much. Maybe even left a lot sooner than you did. Not that you dared asking for that money, she claimed it was just enough to cover a roof over your head and food in your belly. Never mind the latest man she sponged off and didn’t need to pay rent.

She seemed to always have cigarettes, never going without, whereas you did go without. You had to beg her to buy you new clothes or shoes for school and even then you had to earn it. Going with her to her early morning cleaning job before starting school. You could still smell the bleach on your hands through out the day no matter how hard you scrubbed them in between lessons.

It’s your third day at your new job, every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday you’re in the office inputting data. Staring at a computer screen and typing numbers into software. Easy enough with a little training on your first day. You still needed to wait to get paid on last Friday of the month, joining after the cut off date to get the three days you’re working this week. So the money from the Captain would come in handy with buying some new clothes for work till you got your first pay.

Maybe even give him back his tired old jacket that still hung from your shoulders.

You pry your bank card out of the machine and tuck it back into your purse, then your handbag. The Captain helped you set up an app on your phone to check your money, but you still couldn’t believe the amount and had to look on the machine around the corner from work. A second look doesn’t hurt.

It’s dark, the street lamps dull as they warm to a golden hue. You’d stayed behind an extra hour to sort through some data and take the pressure off the team you’re now part of. It’d be foolish to withdraw money in the evening, especially on your own.

So you circle back round the building, halting at the figure standing beside your dad’s old truck. Your mother checking her reflection in the window, fingers wiping the smudge of lipstick on her front tooth. You wonder if there’s enough time for you to retreat, find the nearest bus stop and go back that way.

Luck has never been on your side though as her head snaps to you. Her hands waving above her head as if you couldn’t see her, you wished it were just a mirage.

“There’s my girl.” Yeah when it suits her. When she wants something.

Lena Marston, your mother. If only you could divorce her too like your father.

She’s tall, slim build thanks to her diet of cigarettes and cans of coke. Her eyes rake up and down your form and you know exactly what she’s thinking. How you’ve filled out, cheekbones no longer sharp but now full, healthy.

“What do you want, Lena.” You don’t bother calling her mum, she doesn’t act like one. If anything you're the one caring for her, picking her up whenever she's decided to kick the latest guy to the kerb. Putting her to bed when she's drunk, laying next to her incase she chokes on her own vomit. Or worse flushing the little baggies of drugs down the toilet and convincing her she already had it all.

Least she’s not twitching, no bloodshot eyes or hurried movements. Her speech controlled, no slur.

She pulls the lapel of your jacket, well your father’s old brown cord one. “I remember this,” Lena says, twisting the thick fabric in her grasp and you closer. You try not to wince, glancing to the passerby's who are glued to their phones as they walk. She won't do anything now. Her hand digs into your pocket and the truck keys dangle from her pointer finger. Lena's signature sharp red nails scraping against the inside of your wrist as you try to snatch them back.

"I'm really not in the mood," you regret the words as soon as you say them, her tongue clicking and head shaking.

Rookie mistake, say nothing and just do whatever she asks. It’ll be over a lot faster then.

Lena shoves you towards the passenger door, “get in sweetie,” she says and you cringe internally at the rare term of endearment she throws at you. A smile playing on her lips as she bats her lashes at the man looking your way. Nothing a pretty face wouldn’t fix, she always said that beauty lets you get away with a lot of things. Shame you don’t have it - also her words.

“You’re not insured…” you muttered under your breath, knowing she wouldn’t listen to reason. You sidestep the door as she opens it for you.

She leans on the truck, “you either get in or I take it. Can’t imagine it’d be nice for you to explain that to the Captain.”

You don’t want to get in, but you do to make it easier for the Captain not you. Can’t have his beloved truck taken away or worse in a ditch, you wouldn’t put it past Lena. You’re used to going along with what she wants to make life easier, but it doesn’t seem like it is for you.

Lena slams the drivers door, truck shaking and all you could hear in your head was the captain yelling don’t slam the bloody doors. The engine stutters to a start on the third try and you lurch forward in your seat as she speeds off down the road.

“Phone.” Lena orders, in a tone that suggests she’s now in charge, she’s the Captain and you better do as she asks. She’s already rummaging in the bag on your lap, other hand on the steering wheel. The contents falling down to the footwell, car swerving as she tries to catch it.

“Just drive!” You yell, pointing to the road in front. She swats you away, stinging slap to back of your hand. You lean down, collecting your notepad and purse, lip balm stuffing it back into your bag. The screen of your phone lights up as you picked it up, Kyle texting you to remind you about tomorrow.

“Of course he got you a new phone, bet he made you keep the location on. Classic captain controlling everyone around him - turn it off.”

Shit, had you really let your guard down that much? Was he checking his phone now and seeing if you were on track, you should be halfway to the house by now. You’d always toggled it on and off, never leaving it on for too long. Even your mum didn’t know where you were ninety five percent of the time.

You turn off the location, eyes flitting out the window at the trees blurring past. The industrial town you were only just starting to memorise gone and you had no idea where you were going now. Your hand clutches the panel of the door, the speedometer on the dashboard pushing higher than you thought possible for the old relic. If she doesn’t crash the truck, you’re sure she’ll run it into the ground.

Lena chuckles, “I warned ya’ what he’s like. Never listen eh.”

You don’t bother answering, knowing either way you’d piss her off. Best to let her ramble on, she likes the sound of her own voice. Hopefully she’ll finally get to the reason she’s ambushed you too. The damned phone location royally screwing you over with both of your parents. You’ll leave that turned off from now on.

“And you wonder why people lose their patience with you. Maybe if you listened you wouldn’t be in this mess,” she said, as if this instance is the excuse for every little thing she’s thrown at you.

Mess, you’re not sure which part of your life she’s talking about or how the conversation managed to turn round on you. A teaching moment that has you leaning as far as you can away from her.

“What da- the captain?” You nearly slip up, but Lena’s too sharp and the corner of her lip tugs. She’s got you now.

“Are you really that dense?” Lena tuts, “I’m talking about Tyler, that boys done nothing but be there for you and you can’t even apologise.”

You scoff. “Apologise? He’s the one -,”

Lena shakes her head, indicator ticking in sync with the click of her tongue. She pulls into the lay-by on a country road. Nothing but the lights of the truck shining the way. Her seatbelt unclasps and she flings it over her shoulder, shifting her body in the seat to face you.

“You’ve always been so difficult you know that?” She hums, plucking your shiny new phone out of your grasp. You don’t fight it though, never worth it. “Tyler knew how to handle you, so what he drinks a bit.” A lot, he drinks a lot.

You’ve said the exact same thing to her, sobbed at her that she’s difficult and only makes your life harder, but it’s normally when she’s in a drunken haze. Even as a kid she told you that you were difficult to love, why else would the Captain leave you behind? Leave you with her.

“I’m not going back.” - you don’t even want to think about what would happen if you gave in and went back to him, if you went back with her. Sometimes you do find yourself wanting to though, it’s easier when you know what to expect. And you’re still trying to figure out the Captain, least you know what you’re getting when it comes to Tyler.

“That’s why I’m here, you don’t want him coming around?” She says tapping away at your phone, reading another of Kyle’s incoming texts. “Gonna cost ya.”

Of course she’s not here for you, she’s here for that monthly stash of cash. Expected the Captain to give it to you without a second thought. Probably why she’s been flooding your phone all week trying to get you to come home on the weekend. Because you’ll have that money she so desperately relies on.

A wave of nausea rolls in your stomach, the worn leather seat creaking as Lena inches closer. Fight or flight, no you freeze like every other time.

“Come on, it’s always been mine.” She leans forward and drapes as arm around the back of your seat. “I’ll even stay out of the Captain’s way. He’ll only disappoint you sweetheart,” she says, her hand tracing your cheek and smoothing your hair back. She doesn’t stop there though, no her fingers tangle in your hair and she pulls you closer, scalp aching at the sudden tug.

Another tug and you squeeze your eyes shut trying to breathe through the pain. “Okay, okay. You can have it,” you snap, exhaling a trembling breath as she releases you from her hold. Pathetic really, how you folded so quickly. You can see it in the way she looks at you too.

You transfer the money via your phone, Lena instructing you on how, as she starts the car up, she removes a cigarette from her pocket and lights the end. The car swerves as she leans forward to spark it up again after her first failed attempt.

"You can't smoke them in here," you snap, knowing that one whiff and the captain would know that your mother had been in the car just by the lingering minty scent her of menthol cigarettes. Doesn’t matter how many air fresheners were tucked away in the glove box, none could mask the smell.

"John smokes like a chimney, leave them in here and tell him they're yours. I don't care what you do." Lena tosses the crumpled empty package in the centre console, blowing the smoke in your direction. She got what she came for and it wasn’t you.

There’s no small talk, no questions. Lena detaches from the role of mother, quick to take from you without giving. Not that you’d want anything from her anymore. Deep down you wished there were an inkling of caring, but even that comes at a price for you. Something to earn or use against you.

Lena parks outside your work again, lighting yet another cigarette before she unfastens the seatbelt and pushes the door open.

She’s half way out of the truck when you dare to ask, “was I a mistake?”

“Of course ya were.” She throws her words over her shoulder like it ain’t a devastating blow.

The door slams and it feels like it shakes you to your core. You drive back in silence, the static of the radio drowning out the thoughts in your mind, but you’re numb. Time isn’t something you’re aware of either, you seem to blink and then you’re waiting for the guy at check point to hand back your pass.

It’s late by the time you get back, you sit in the truck outside the residential house, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. There’s only one light on downstairs, you wonder if they’re all crowded in living room watching some sort of sport on the tv. You don’t think you have the courage to face the Captain. To plaster on a forced smile as he asks you about your day.

There’s no Captain though as you kick off your shoes in the porch and step into the open plan living room. No Kyle or Johnny, but there is Simon standing in the small kitchenette stirring the teabag in his cup. His gaze locks with yours and you swear he can sense the anxious ball of energy thrumming through your body. Like he knows that somethings off, a chemical off balance or some sort of explosion. There might as well have been when it comes to Lena Marston.

Your phone rings and it’s like another kick to the gut. Angie Price’s name lighting up the screen. Reminding you that you are a mistake, your little brother planned not you. You’ve never answered one of her calls and don’t plan to.

“Everthin’ alright?” Simon asks, blonde brow raising beneath the hood covering his mess of hair, skeleton teeth of his mask shifting with the move of his lips. The spoon clinks to the side of his cup as leans to the side to open the fridge and grab a carton of milk, all whilst his molten brown eyes trail your body as if looking for a problem. No he must see it, clear as day written all over you.

You avoid his gaze, “yep, just fine. A little tired,” you rambled on, rushing to the stairs before he can press any further.

In the Captain’s room however you catch your reflection in the mirror and now know why Simon asked if you were alright. Your eyes bloodshot, face puffy from the tears you’d shed on the drive home. That and the torn scrap of fabric, the gaping hole just beneath the lapel of the old cord jacket. Exactly where Lena had grabbed you by earlier.

You’re not sure why you wear the old thing. Like some sort of weighted blanket that keeps you grounded. The oversized jacket keeping you warm, a tiny part of your dad clinging to the fabric too, but it’s tainted by Lena’s minty cigarettes. That even now you don’t get to have something for yourself. Not money, nor your dad.

[Part ten]

Mum reveal and their mother/daughter dynamic - Lena still trying to influence her daughter and plant some things in her head to make her question the Captain’s motives 🫡 please note I am dyslexic so there may be errors/mistakes. I do edit multiple times but miss out things - Leya

Taglist: @unclearblur @enfppuff @elita1 @tired-writer04 @kaoyamamegami @gallantys @leon-thot-kennedy @trulovekay @harley101399 @misshoneypaper @rpgsandstuff @tomatto1234 @lolyouresilly @madsothree @astrothedoll @grandfartvoid @delaynew @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @little-mini-me-world @exitingmusic @majocookie @elegancefr @jesskidding3 @thepowers-kat-be @frangiipanii @ye-olde-trash-panda @sleep101 @bluebarrybubblez @shitaaba @muraaaaaa

206 notes · View notes

oddlydescriptive · 1 month ago

Text

Reset, Chapter Seventeen

Series Masterlist

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You didn’t get flown out for the final race. Didn’t get a dress code email for the prize giving ceremony. Didn’t get a hotel keycard left in an envelope at the front desk. You watched the last race of the season from your dorm, curled up on your twin bed with a plate of freezer dumplings and a laptop that buffered at least twice before the stream caught up.

Red Bull won everything, obviously. Verstappen took the final checkered flag like it was inevitable. The team celebrated in a blaze of champagne and perfectly lit content loops. You closed the window before the podium interviews even started.

No one called. No one needed anything.

And honestly, that made sense.

You’re still under contract through December 31st- still, technically, Red Bull property- but AlphaTauri’s already been announced. You’re not just development anymore. You’re not just RedBull Racing anymore. You’re forward-facing. Pipeline material. And while no one has said it aloud, the shift’s been happening for weeks.

They’re phasing you out.

Quietly. Gently. Efficiently.

Your data access had been the first thing to go- little changes, gradual redactions. You still had log-ins, but fewer dashboards showed up when you used them. Then the assignments started thinning out. Weekly reports became biweekly summaries. Dev meeting invites stopped appearing unless someone had a specific question for you. A sim anomaly. A question about a comment you had left on the braking data a few weeks ago.

It’s not personal. It’s not even cruel. It’s just… logistics. And you got it. You get it. You do.

You’re not their girl anymore. Or, won’t be. Not in the gears-and-axles sense. You got exactly what you wanted. You’ve stopped being a cog. Now you’re something shinier. Something public. A face. A product. A name.

You’d had more access than you probably should’ve from the beginning. More control. More input. They’re only pulling back what they’d loaned in the first place.

Still.

You’d built your entire life around this place since they dumped you on the factory steps in August- broke, jagged, desperate, hungry for anything more than the Indy career you had torched to the ground. This badge. These halls. The windowless sim rooms and bitter instant coffee and shared dorm showers. It’s become your whole ecosystem.

And now?

Now you’re bored.

Not in the casual, oh-I-have-nothing-to-do sense. Not in the Instagram scroll, maybe-I’ll-go-for-a-run way. You’re untethered. No real tasks. A measly four calendar holds before the end of the year. No Gavin- he’s traveling with the team. No Alessandro- burning PTO like a matchbook before the winter build surge. No Danny- off wrapping up his last days with McClaren. Stuck, just like you. Stuck, right here in purgatory.

Lying on your back in a sterile little dorm room with your legs curled up like a child and your phone battery at nine percent. Watching the forced-air heating ruffle a stray paper on your desk, trying not to fall asleep before the year-end party even starts.

It’s not loneliness, exactly. You’ve survived worse. Objectively, you have zero complaints.

But it’s quiet in a way that makes your skin itch.

There are big things coming. Huge things. A race seat. Brand deals and sponsors. Points, even, if you play your cards right. But right now? Right now you’re still technically Red Bull. Still on their payroll. Still sleeping under their roof.

You’re not part of the machine you live in anymore. And the weight of that contradiction is making you feel… something. Not numb. Not sad. Not exactly.

Just unmoored.

The day’s gotten away from you in your spiral- cold gray light stretching thin across the dorm ceiling, your phone buzzing occasionally from across the room and left unread. You should be doing something. Hair. Makeup. Picking out an outfit for this evening’s staff year end party. Anything.

Instead, you’ve just been… still.

You can’t quite name it. The feeling in your chest like a tether’s been cut. The quiet hum of weightless boredom, pressed under the skin like a bruise that never quite blooms.

You’re still training. Still working. You show up to the gym like it’s your job- because it kind of is. Because it’s the only thing that hasn’t shifted beneath your feet lately. The rhythm, the discipline, the ache. It reminds you of the summer. The purgatory of Jos’s house. The hours you carved open just to fill them with movement. With sweat. With anything that kept you from unraveling entirely.

But this has been different.

Since you got here- since the AlphaTauri shook the marrow out of your bones and left you wrung out and trembling for your life in an ice bath- you’ve been training with intention. Not just survival. Not just control. Not just maintenance. You’ve been trying to build.

For the first time in your life, the goal isn’t to disappear.

It’s to expand.

IndyCar never cared if you were strong. They cared if you were light. No driver weight minimums. Junior series, whatever flavor you drove in any given year, same thing. Lighter was faster. Coaches, engineers, principals- always asking the same questions.

How light can you get and still drive? How many days can you go without carbs before your body starts eating your reflexes?

Smaller was better. A decade of conditioning that turned your own hunger into an enemy. Every pound scrutinized. Every calorie accounted for. Racing in those worlds meant being barely there- meant learning to cut yourself down until you fit inside the mold.

The only real advantage to being a woman in that system? You were already small. Naturally lighter. It made the weight targets a little easier- sometimes. While your male teammates were scraping muscle off themselves to make weight, skipping meals and running hot just to cut grams, you were coasting in under the line. Not because it was healthy. Not because it was fair. But because being born smaller meant you starved less.

But now?

Now you’re in F1.

Now there's a minimum. A fixed number. Now it doesn’t matter if you’re naturally small- because every pound you don’t carry is another pound your competitors get to fill with power. With strength. With muscle that helps them outdrive, outmuscle, outlast you.

You’re no longer rewarded for taking up less space. You’re punished for it. So you’ve changed.

You’ve been eating like it matters. Training like it’s math- input and output, time and tension. Your body, for the first time since before you got your first period, isn’t a compromise. It’s becoming a weapon.

You sit up slowly. Peel off your clothes. One layer at a time. Hoodie, socks, leggings, tank. Until you’re just in your underwear and bra. Cotton. Soft. Familiar.

Then you reach for the full-length mirror leaning against the wall and drag it onto the bed with you. Set it up agasint your pillows so you can see yourself. All of you. Up close.

And then you look. Really look. Take stock.

Your thighs are thicker now. Solid. Corded with new muscle, the kind that moves when you shift and flexes without trying. They press together, heavy and warm and proud. They flow into hips that have grown wider, fuller, more anchored somehow. Your waist is still there- narrow, defined- but the curve from rib to hip to thigh is smooth and deep and fucking stunning.

You twist slightly, propping yourself on one arm, and turn your attention lower.

Your ass is outrageous.

You blink. Then smile. Every inch of it earned from loading squats three times a week until you might have cried with exhaustion. It lifts high and round, fuller than it’s ever been. It’s the reason most of your jeans have become… hazardous, lately. You only have a handful of pairs left that fit at all, much less well. The shape is almost surreal- like someone photoshopped you and forgot to undo it. But it’s not fake. It’s earned. It balances the line of your back, the curve of your hips, the strength in your thighs.

You shift your hips again, slowly. Watching the way everything follows. The drag of your skin, the flex and pull of muscle. And it’s not just power. It’s not just the function of it.

It’s beautiful.

There’s a sensuality to it that catches you off guard.

Not sexual. Not quite. Not the kind of thing you’d show off for someone else. This isn’t about being wanted. You haven’t been touched in months. Haven’t been kissed. Haven’t felt the pressure of someone else’s palm against your skin or the heat of a gaze that wanted this body.

And that’s okay.

Because right now, this moment isn’t for them.

It’s for you.

You look at your stomach- still lean, but no longer hollow. Muscle built up through dedication, not revealed by deprivation. Your shoulders roll back as you shift upright, and your back pulls taut, muscles threading together like ropes under skin.

And then your eyes land on your chest.

Your bra- nothing fancy, just plain cotton- stretches over you in a way it never used to. Full. Rounded. Heavy in a way that’s new. Like your body finally got the message that it’s safe to have things now. That you’re allowed to take up space.

You trail your fingers from your sternum outward. Over the shape of yourself. The dip of your waist. The rise of your hips. The flare and the fullness and the heat pooling under your skin, not from desire- but from recognition.

This is not the body you left America with.

Not the one built for hunger. Not the one that fought, that starved, that was sold in sponsorship dollars and calories just to survive. Not the same one that felt powerless and drowned and vulnerable in pits full of men with egos that outpaced their cars.

This one is yours.

All of it. The strength. The softness. The sex appeal.

And yeah, it’s probably a little vain, the way you pose. The way you tilt your chin and arch your back and stare at your own reflection with a smirk you didn’t know you still had in you. But you don’t care.

You love her.

This new shape. This new presence. This walking, breathing proof that you are here. You deserve this space. You are every inch of who you make yourself to be.

You pull your knees up to your chest, still sitting on the bed, mirror between them, and rest your cheek on your own shoulder, watching the way your arms curve around yourself.

It’s not lost on you how much trauma lived in the old body. In the bones that didn’t bend. In the skin that always felt too tight. In the way people looked at you like a novelty or a threat or a product.

This body isn’t for them.

It’s for you. For who you’re going to be.

And it’s perfect.

Eventually… you move. Not quickly. Not decisively. Just… gradually. Like heat returning to numb limbs. You get up, still in your underwear, and pad barefoot across the cold dorm floor to the narrow wardrobe tucked beside your desk. It’s small, just to hold the things you can’t afford to let wrinkle. You’ve only opened it a handful of times since you got back from Brazil.

The contents aren’t much. A few basics. A pressed pair of jeans with a sharp, precise crease ironed down the front. Slacks. A simple blazer. At the right end, your suit hangs crisp in its plastic wrap, the one you wore to push your contract at Helmut, back when the words “development driver” still felt like something borrowed.

You touch the fabric out of habit. The pants look… impossible. Maybe, if you hold your breath and pray to Sara Blakely and her Spanx gods- oh, and don’t eat all night- but honestly, you’re looking forward to the catering spread. Besides, it’s just the staff party- it’s really not that serious.

You let them hang.

Instead, you let your fingers walk a few hangers to the left. Fingers brush something soft. Velvet. Rich, forgiving, quietly festive. Not ugly sweater festive, but more like ‘yes, we are acknowledging it’s December.’ You pull it forward.

The dress is red. Not race-car red, not attention-demanding. Just… warm. A little saturated. The kind of color that makes your skin look golden and your hair a little darker in contrast. Sleeveless. High-necked. Hits just above the knee. Enough stretch to move with you. To let the body you’ve built exist without apology.

You hold it up to your chest, glance toward the mirror still propped on your bed, and nod once. Quietly. Like you’re letting yourself agree with the version of you that smiled at her own reflection twenty minutes ago. It’s not a statement dress. It’s not supposed to be.

You pull on a pair of black nylons- semi-sheer, a soft little balance between flirtation and formality. The kind you used to wear for media days in junior formula, when you wanted to look polished but not severe. They slide up with the faintest whisper, snug but not constricting. They feel like intention.

Shoes next- your simple black pumps. Not casual, not party heels. Just clean, classic. You slip them on and they still fit the way only leather can- with loyalty. Like no matter how much the rest of you changes, these shoes will still love your feet. That feels like something. A single, stable detail in a body and world that’s otherwise brand new.

You perch on the edge of your desk to do your makeup rather than move the half-clean laundry that lives on your chair. Try not to sit in your compact while you plan your face.

Nothing heavy. Nothing loud. Just light coverage. A little shimmer. A soft sweep of blush across the apples of your cheeks that makes you look sunlit, even under factory-grade fluorescents. You gloss your lips with something pink and sheer, add a touch of mascara. Pretty. Festive. The kind of face that looks like someone you’d want to talk to at a work party without checking a credential first.

Your hair’s a little unruly from lying around until it air-dried, but it still curls easily under your hands. You twist it up in loose, polished sections, pin it in place, and finish it with a narrow ribbon tucked just above the nape of your neck. The bow is barely anything- thin, dainty. Just a little touch.

And when you finally step back from the mirror and take it all in- dress, tights, pumps, makeup, the slight shimmer on your collarbone- you don’t feel like a driver or a ghost or a PR obligation. Not really.

You feel like a girl going to a party at the end of the strangest, most transformative semester of her life. A little out of place. A little nostalgic for something that hasn’t even fully ended. Quietly proud. Quietly melancholy.

You smooth your hands down your dress once, just to feel the fabric hug your ribs. Time to say goodbye- quietly, professionally, beautifully- to the place that made you feel like someone valuable again. Even if they’re already learning how to do without you.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The party’s better than expected.

Not flashy, not loud- just the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low warmth of staff laughter echoing against the high factory walls. Someone’s strung lights across the ceiling beams, giving everything a soft golden tint. There’s music playing low from the overheads, just enough to keep the room moving. Food’s decent. Little platters of fussy fingerfoods that strike a balance between upscale and approachable. Drinks are free. Everyone’s at that perfect midpoint between polite and tipsy.

You’re leaned against a high table near the edge of the floor, nursing something red and fizzy in a plastic flute. The dress is holding up. The shoes haven’t betrayed you. And you’re laughing- real laughter, open and soft- because Ollie from dev is holding court like his life depends on it.

“I swear to God,” he’s saying, wide-eyed, one hand gesturing wildly, “the second I mentioned it, he looked at me like I’d confessed to a murder.”

Nicole’s giggling politely beside him- dark hair curling over her shoulders, dress tastefully low-cut, clearly groomed and pressed to the nine- and Ollie is doing absolutely nothing to hide the way he’s looking at her.

It’s not subtle.

He is making full, direct, devotional heart eyes every time she opens her mouth. You’re only half listening to the story at this point. Mostly you’re laughing at the sheer audacity of his infatuation. Like he doesn’t even care that you’re standing right here, clocking every stolen glance like it’s your actual job.

Ollie says something else- something about a lost data package and a RedBull fueled all nighter that left him hallucinating on his drive home- and Nicole tilts her head, clearly humoring him.

“That’s… so wild,” she says, all doe-eyed and glittery.

Ollie looks like he’s going to combust. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing again. You sip your drink instead, cheeks warm. For the first time all day, you feel… present. A little girlish. A little like you belong. And yet, despite the comfort of that- you feel it.

You can feel Jos moving through the room.

It’s not oppressive. Not threatening. He’s not circling like a shark, and you’re not prey. It’s just… something you’re aware of. Like tracking a storm in the distance. You always know where he is.

And honestly?

You’ve resigned yourself to it.

You know he’ll find you eventually. That’s the nature of Jos. He always does. Always appears at the edge of a moment you thought was yours, all gravel-voiced analysis and heavy handshakes and that particular brand of European proximity that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.

And you’re not exactly afraid. You never have been.

If anything- God, you almost missed him.

Jos is a lot. An exhausting amount. But he’s also sharp. Dangerous in the way only brilliant men can be. Talking to him is like fencing with live wire- strategic, quick, crackling. But you’ve never felt like the target. Not really.

You’re not sure what that makes you.

An ally, maybe.

A co-conspirator.

Because Jos doesn’t talk to you like you’re lucky to be here. He talks to you like you’re a weapon. Like you’re leverage he trusts to understand what you’re worth. Like you’re playing a game with him- and unlike with most men in this sport, with Jos, the game doesn’t end with you losing. You think. Probably. So far, at least.

Still, there’s a sliver of something colder beneath it all. A flicker of discomfort you haven’t fully looked at yet. You don’t let yourself think about that too hard. Not here. Not now.

Instead, you set your drink down and laugh again- high and bright, because Ollie has just managed to turn a telemetry error into a flirtation, and Nicole is playing along like she might just let him win. You play with the ribbon in your hair, glance sideways across the room- And, sure enough, Jos is watching. Not close. Not obvious. Just… waiting.

You adjust the strap of your dress, smooth your hands down the velvet one more time. Your glass is nearly empty. Nicole’s laughing again, Ollie’s blushing so hard it’s a health concern, and somewhere across the room, Jos Verstappen is waiting for you.

So you decide- fuck it.

If he’s going to find you anyway- if he’s already watching- you might as well meet him on your terms. Even if those terms are flimsy. Even if they exist mostly as a way to keep your spine straight and your voice level and your heart from pounding through your ribs.

You slip away from the table, leaving Ollie mid-laugh and Nicole mid-smile. Neither of them notices you go.

You push off the table and cross the floor without fanfare. Slow, steady, unbothered. Your heels click softly against the concrete. The lights above throw gold over your shoulders, and you hold your posture just right. Not stiff. Not girlish. Just composed. Whole.

You don’t know what compels you, exactly. It’s not submission. It’s not allegiance. It’s something quieter. Resignation, maybe. Or- God, maybe curiosity. You’ve danced around this enough times to know it’s coming. He’ll find you eventually. Might as well see what happens when you make the first move.

Jos tracks you the whole way. He’ss standing near the back, half-shadowed by a pillar and positioned with surgical precision- close enough to be in the mix, far enough that no one casually wanders into his orbit. He’s talking to someone from powertrains, nodding along like he’s interested, but his eyes flick toward you the moment you cross the floor.

Not obviously. Not openly. Just with the kind of stillness predators have right before they strike. Arms folded. Drink untouched. He shifts his weight once, almost imperceptibly, like he can’t believe his luck but is already plotting how to use it.

You keep your shoulders relaxed. You walk like you have nowhere in particular to be.

Jos smiles when you reach him. It doesn’t quite touch his eyes.His gaze flicks over you once- just once- but it’s loaded. Evaluating. Not lecherous, but not empty either. Like he’s cataloging the value of your appearance for some unseen ledger.

“There she is,” he says, low and pleased. “I was wondering when you’d come say hello.”

You smile. Easy. Controlled. “Thought I’d save the best for last.”

He laughs once, a short sound, dry and amused. “I like the dress.”

You resist the urge to fidget. “Thanks. Needed something that fit.”

Jos’s eyes flash at that- just a brief glint of approval, the kind that makes your skin feel seen in a way that’s not quite comfortable. Not inappropriate. Just intentional.

You sip your drink- what’s left of it- and let a small silence settle between you. The music hums along in the background. Conversation rolls across the room like static. You glance over your shoulder once, scan the space like you’re keeping track of exits. Then turn back.

And with practiced casualness, you say, “You hear about anything running this winter?”

Jos’s attention sharpens, just slightly. Barely a twitch in his jaw. But he clocks it. You keep your eyes on the middle distance and take a sip of your drink- mostly for the pause it offers- and then, casually, like you’re mentioning the weather: “I’ve been a little bored.”

Jos tilts his head. Interested. “Is that so?”

“Just... stir-crazy.” You keep your tone light. Bright. “Haven’t been in a real car since they flew Max in for brake testing.”

He gives nothing away. Just waits.

You glance out over the room like it doesn’t matter, like you’re not carefully placing each word. “I was thinking- if anything came up. A testing slot. A rally drive. Anything like that.” There. Gentle. Palatable. No pressure. Not desperation. Not even an ask, really. Just a statement. A floating suggestion.

Your voice doesn’t shift. Your shoulders stay easy. But your stomach coils tight. Because even now- even with this new body, this new deal, this new version of you- there’s still something about asking that feels like folding. Like peeling open your ribs.

Jos’s mouth twitches. Just the corner. “Hm.” That’s it. Just that. But you know him well enough to catch it. That sound- small, smug, delighted. It’s the sound of a trap closing.

Because you came to him. Because you asked.

No matter how subtle. No matter how casual. You asked. And it thrills him. Because Jos Verstappen lives for this.

He hides it well- he always does- but it’s there. The faint shift of weight toward you. The satisfied tilt of his head. The way his eyes sharpen just slightly, like the game he’s been playing has finally started to swing in his favor.

“You want me to make a call?” he asks, smooth and quiet, like it costs him nothing.

You lift a shoulder. “Only if it’s not a headache.”

He hums, looking away for a moment, already flipping through names, contacts, favors- building the scaffolding in his mind. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to prove he holds the reins. Only then does he speak.

“It wouldn’t be a single-seater,” he says finally. “Rally, most likely. Scandinavia. Snow. Cold. Not much exposure. Barely any pay.”

You don’t hesitate. “Send my paycheck straight back to the team,” you say. “Call it a sponsorship. I don’t care what it is.”

That gets his attention.

Jos studies you, eyes narrowing just slightly. Not with suspicion. With curiosity. Like he’s just thrown a line out, expecting it to hang in the water for a while- and you bit down before it even landed.

It was a test. A measure of your grit. Of your desperation. Of your understanding.

And you passed.

He leans back ever so slightly, nodding once, like he’s filing something away. “That sounds like a good time, does it?” he asks, tone dry but edged with something almost amused.

You hold his gaze. Steady. “Yes. It does.”

Another beat. He looks at you for a moment longer- really looks. Like he’s trying to figure out if you’re naive or ruthless, and whether or not it matters.

Then, almost fondly: “You’re smart to ask.”

There’s no threat in it. But there is a temperature. A charge beneath the compliment. He wants you to know you’ve made the right choice. That you’re wise to seek him out. That there’s more where that came from, if you stay close.

Jos smiles again, all teeth and calculation disguised as generosity. “I’ll be in touch. Keep your gear bag packed.”

And just like that, you’ve traded yourself for a favor. You feel it settle in your ribs. Weightless. But not free. The kind of thing that won’t show up in contracts or inboxes, but that you’ll carry all the same. Jos slips away only a moment later.

One minute he’s promising to make a few calls, and the next he’s clapping someone on the back and gliding into another conversation- like he hadn’t just offered you a taste of something sharp and sweet with a leash hidden inside.

You’re left standing near the perimeter of the room, drink still in hand, blood still humming from the conversation. It's not adrenaline exactly. Not fear. Just the slow, uneasy swell of something that feels like a contract being signed without ink.

You can feel him before you hear him. The shift in temperature. The static at your back. Max. Predictable, honestly. That Jos would drop you off right in his periphery. Fitting, truly. Inevitable.

You don’t see him approach- he moves like a shadow under a locked door. Silent. Sure. Unwanted.

But this time? You’re not caught off guard. You’re not off balance. You’re not scrambling to please, or prove, or endure. You’re tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that scrapes everything polite out of your chest and leaves nothing behind but sharp teeth and sharper instincts.

And you’re not afraid of him anymore.

Max takes position just behind your left shoulder, close enough that the heat of him skims your skin without touching it. Like a dare. Like he wants you to turn.

You don’t flinch.

You just wait. He wouldn’t have stepped forward if he didn’t have something to say. Fucking say it, Max.

“You really going for the full set, huh?” he says at last, voice low and dry. Venom tucked under every syllable like it’s something elegant. “Sponsorship. Seat. Verstappen family holiday invite.”

You blink once. Slow. Unbothered. “Jesus.”

You turn your head over your shoulder- just enough to catch the line of his mouth, the cut of his eyes. The disdain’s still there, as always, but there’s something else now. Something darker coiled just behind it. “Is this your idea of a Christmas card?” you ask.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t have to. The accusation’s already in the air between you. He’s not here to be clever. He’s here to see what you’ll do.

You inhale, sharp and silent. Then pivot on your toe, full-body now, facing him square for the first time. He’s close. Closer than you expected. Closer than anyone should be in a room full of champagne and fairy lights and factory staff pretending they aren’t watching.

You meet him at eye level. No posture. No smile. No spin.

Just you.

“I’m sorry I’m not subtle enough for you,” you say, voice steady. “But some of us don’t have the luxury of pretending we don’t need favors.”

You take a half-step forward. Not aggressive. Not passive. Just enough to reclaim the space he thought he’d filled.

“Look,” you go on, tired and clear and done with it, “I’ve got nothing to sell but my drives and my time. That’s it. So yeah, if Jos wants to hand me a favor, or a drive, or a fucking photo op, I’m going to take it. I’m going to smile, say thank you, and take everything he gives me. Because I’m not in a position to be picky.”

His jaw tightens. Barely. Just enough.

And maybe you should stop there. But you’re so fucking done. With him. With this. With the way he’s hovered all season like a storm cloud and acted like you were the one blocking the sun.

So you don’t stop.

“Seriously,” you add, biting now, “why are you standing here? Why don’t you go find another junior employee to intimidate? Do some scouting for next season. You love that shit.”

Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t budge.

But his silence isn’t power anymore. Not to you.

In two weeks, you’re out of his factory. Out of his immediate orbit. You’re done tiptoeing through his moods like they’re weather patterns. So you lean in. A breath closer. Just to twist the knife. Just because you can.

“Or maybe,” you murmur, “you want me to yell at you again.” His expression doesn’t change. But his pupils sharpen. You see it. The flash of it. That dark, sick little thing he doesn’t want to name.

You remember it. That day in the boardroom. The way he stood there, watching you unravel like it was art. Practically licking his fucking chops in the blood of a kill. Like he’d finally pulled the right string and the whole thing came tumbling down and God, wasn’t that just so satisfying.

You raise your brows now, almost playful. “Seemed like you loved it.” The air between you tightens.

Not with fear. With something else.

Something heavier. Twisted. Threaded through with adrenaline and ego and the fact that you don’t technically need to be any nicer to him than he deserves anymore- but fuck, you’ll still take the last word.

Your drink sweats in your hand. Somewhere, someone across the room laughs too loud. A champagne cork pops. Max breathes in. Sharp. Controlled. You can see the words on his tongue. You can see the war inside him- the want to snap back. To grab. To tear. But he doesn’t.

He flicks his gaze down your body instead.

Not long. Not crude. Just one slow, scalding drag of assessment. Like he’s not even sure if he’s sizing you up or taking you in. Then he tilts his head. Just a little. Voice flat. “Careful.”

You smile. Not sweet. Not kind. Just knowing. “Or what?” you say, cool and easy. “You’ll call HR? Kick me off the team?” You let the smile grow sharp. “Oh, wait. You can’t. I’m already leaving.”

His eyes narrow- barely. He’s trying so fucking hard not to react. To be cool. Detached. Unbothered. And he almost pulls it off. Almost. Because this? This isn’t a fight.

Not yet. This is play. The sick kind.

Two wild animals circling the same patch of dirt. Teeth bared, tails twitching. Neither of you quite sure if this is about dominance or the last laugh or mutual destruction- but God, don’t you both want to find out.

You take a sip of your drink. Cool and steady.

And Max- quiet, scalding Max- just stands there. Watching.

Your phone vibrates in your clutch.

You wouldn’t normally check it in the middle of a cold war reenactment with Max Verstappen, but almost everyone on your short, carefully curated no-Do-Not-Disturb list is in this room, except your parents and-

You pull it out.

Danny Ricciardo [8:42 PM] bailing on mclaren. headed your way. party still good or should we find a pub? 20 mins out

You blink. And then you smile. It hits like a burst of light- like someone cracked open a window in a room you didn’t know was suffocating you. Danny.

Your maybe-friend. Your only safe person in the entire Red Bull ecosystem. Someone who isn’t looking at you like he’s devastated you’re leaving, or like he’ll forget your name the second the paperwork clears, or like he’s waiting for God to strike you down mid-sentence.

(Max, that last one. That look is all Max.)

You type fast.

You [8:43 PM]still rolling but up to you. everyone here keeps looking at me like a kicked puppy. wouldn’t mind a drink that doesn’t have ‘compote’ or ‘infusion’ in it.

There’s no reply for a minute.

Two.

Five.

Max, then, checks his phone beside you, his thumb hovering just a little too long. You glance at him- because you can’t not- and for the first time, he looks mildly annoyed. That makes you feel excellent. The night does have hope after all. You sip your drink just to keep from smiling.

Your phone buzzes again.

Danny Ricciardo [8:51 PM]let’s go out. I’ll text when I’m close.

You straighten, pulse skipping just once. You’re not going out in this. Not with Danny. Not to a pub. Velvet dress? Ribbon hair? Absolutely not.

You glance at Max, who’s still scrolling, now with an expression like he’s trying to burn holes through his phone. Good. He can stay here with his bad mood and his weird dad. You’ve got plans. “Bye,” you murmur, not bothering to wait for him to look up.

You disappear through the side doors, heels clicking across tile. Up the stairs. Down the dim dorm hallway that’s somehow still home even when it’s already starting to forget you.

Inside your room, you move fast. Dress peeled off in one motion. You keep the nylons- they add a little warmth, and they make you feel like your legs have a little secret armor- and pull on a pair of shredded black jeans. High-rise, frayed knees, familiar as a favorite memory. A memory that is a little tight over the ass, but it’ll do.

A sleeveless top. Tighter. Cropped just enough to make your waist look like something sculpted- enough that it just barely kisses the waistband of your jeans. Black, because of course it is, but with a slight sheen that catches the dorm light.

You let your hair down. Shake it out. Pin the bow back in, low at the base of your skull.

Quick check in the mirror- yeah. That’ll do. Cute. Sharp. A little youthful. A little fuck-you. A little fuck-me.

Exactly right.

You grab your jacket. Lip gloss. Your phone. And when you leave this time, it’s not with a sense of something ending. It’s with a thrill in your chest like maybe- finally- something is about to begin. The all black is fitting- like Danny’s come to save you from your own funeral.

You’re practically skipping by the time you spot the rental SUV idling just past the front doors.

Factory lights still gleam overhead, pooling muted white against the cold pavement. You’re flushed from the party, from the hallway sprint, from the stupid quiet thrill of knowing someone actually wants to see you.

You wave once, already grinning.

Danny rolls the window down, half laughing already. “There she is! Backseat, Hollywood.”

You stop short. “What?”

He grins wider, too casual. “You’ve got the back.”

You blink. There’s a half-second- maybe less- where your brain tries to find a joke there, or context, or anything to make that sentence mean what you want it to mean.

But then you round the side and open the door-

Oh.

Okay.

That’s fine.

This is fine.

Max is in the passenger seat, half-turned toward the window, jacket collar flipped up like he’s shielding himself from the entire world. He doesn’t even look at you. Your brain tries to recalibrate.

Because you’d assumed. Of course you did. Danny texted you. Danny said let’s go out. Danny is your friend. And for a few fragile minutes, you let yourself believe that meant just you and him. That it would be easy. Familiar. Comforting.

And now-

Now you’re crawling into the backseat behind the same man you had a little verbal sparring match with not seven minutes ago. Perfect.

You clamber awkwardly across the console, half-kneeling on the leather, and stretch your arms around Danny in the world’s least ergonomic side hug.

He laughs, warm and immediate. “That’s one way to say hi.”

“You’re lucky I’m flexible,” you mutter, chin nearly in his shoulder.

“You’re lucky you smell good,” he shoots back, arms slipping around your waist just long enough to squeeze.

You pull back, cheeks pink from wind and exertion, and slide fully into the backseat.

Danny eyes you through the rearview mirror. “You look nice.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting your seatbelt. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“No, I’m saying it like you’re trouble.”

From the front, Max shifts. Says nothing.

You glance at the back of his head. His silence is louder than the engine.

Great.

This is going to be fun.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’re practically folded over the center console, laughing about something stupid- Danny said a phrase wrong, or you did, and now the two of you are tangled in some inside joke Max doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to. You’re taking up space like you live there- laughing, leaning in too close to Danny, warm in a way Max hasn’t seen from you in weeks. Maybe ever.

And it’s not just the posture. It’s the presentation.

Your hair spills over your shoulder, catching the light from the streetlamps overhead. Loose. Shiny. Feminine in a way that makes his throat tighten.

Your shirt rides up slightly at the back, just enough to reveal the soft curve of waist where the jeans cling a little too perfectly- black denim, snug in all the places that would make anyone stare, especially now, with your new body- louder, prouder, stronger than the one Max last saw at a weigh-in this summer. Sheer black nylons that aren’t entirely see-through, but just enough to make his eyes linger before he can snap them away.

He doesn’t look. He shouldn’t be looking. He isn’t looking.

But he can’t stop seeing.

He tries not to. Shifts in his seat like that’ll stop his peripheral vision from functioning. Like the heat creeping under his collar isn’t his problem to deal with.

He hates this.

Because it’s not just the way you look- it’s the way Danny’s looking at you. The way you’re looking at Danny. All warm and open and lit up from the inside. Like Danny’s safe. Like he’s yours. Like he’s seen something Max hasn’t.

There’s a ribbon in your hair.

A fucking ribbon.

Tied low, trailing down the back of your neck where your curls fall loose and messy, like you meant for them to look that soft. That touchable. But Max can’t stop looking at it. He hates that bow. He hates what it implies- what it softens. Like you’re approachable. Sweet. Like there’s anything gentle about you.

And he hates that it works.

Danny said it first- you smell good- and Max hasn’t been able to un-smell you since. Now Max can’t stop noticing. Something soft and expensive and a little sweet, something that clings to the heater vents. Wraps around his throat. It’s subtle. Effortless. Exactly the kind of scent that doesn’t try to draw attention but does anyway. Warm. Light. Clean. A little vanilla, maybe. A little powder. Something soft and domestic and utterly disarming, soaking into the the edge of his patience with every breath.

He wants to roll down the fucking window.

You look good. And that should be annoying. Just another fucking thing about you that takes up too much space. But it’s worse than annoying.

He hates all of it. He hates how cute it is. Not loud. Not styled to seduce. Just naturally, infuriatingly attractive. He wants to make Danny turn the car around. Wants to shout something just to ruin the mood you and Danny are building without even trying.

Because it undermines everything. The bow, the perfume, the gloss on your lips- none of it belongs on someone like you. Someone who’s clawed her way into every room, swinging elbows, spitting fire, refusing to take a single inch without drawing blood.

But now you’re in Danny’s car looking like this?

Like a girl?

Because for the first time- the first time- Max doesn’t see you as a rival, or a nuisance, or a pressure point to push until you scream.

For the first time, he sees you as a woman.

And he hates it. Hates that it’s you. That it’s now. That it's happening at all. Because you’re not supposed to be this. You’re supposed to be sharp edges and smug retorts. A storm in a Red Bull polo. Someone to fight with. Someone to prove wrong.

You’re not supposed to be cute.

You’re not supposed to be beautiful.

But you are.

And now you’re glowing in the backseat like some perfect fucking contradiction, all honeyed edges and storm-wrought eyes, and Max-

Max can’t breathe.

Because the same power that makes him want to throw something through a wall every time you talk is the same thing that’s pulling at his nerves right now. That’s twisting under his skin like a wire.

You are so goddamn alive.

Every room you walk into, you change the temperature.

Every time you speak, you rearrange the gravity.

Max clenches his jaw. Because the worst part- the part he can’t admit, even to himself- is that this isn’t new. Not really. That presence you carry, that fire, that thing that pisses him off every time you open your mouth- that’s what this is. You’re a problem. You’ve always been a problem.

And now he’s seeing what that problem looks like in black jeans and soft perfume and a bow tied at the back of your head like a dare. You’re not just a problem. You’re alluring. You’re dangerous. And Max is hating every single fucking second of realizing it.

When the car pulls up in front of the pub, you unclip your seatbelt with a soft click and glance between the two of them.

“I can check it out first,” you say, hand already on the door. “Make sure it’s halfway subtle. Not filled with factory staff or a Max fan club.”

Danny huffs a laugh, but you’re already slipping out- shoulders squared, leather sneakers hitting pavement with that easy, practiced rhythm that says you’ve never once considered asking permission to take up space.

You cross in front of the SUV, slicing clean through the headlights. And for a second- just a second- Max forgets to breathe.The way your hips move. The way the sheen of your tights catches the light through the ripped in the denim at the back of your thigh. The bow bouncing softly behind your hair as you go.

Danny’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s watching, too. Staring, really. Full tilt. Blatant.

And not in the way Max is- bitter and defensive, trying to smother it before it spreads. Danny’s looking like someone genuinely pleased to see you. Someone who likes watching you walk. Someone who wouldn’t mind seeing you keep going and not come back, just so he has an excuse to follow.

And Max-

Max hates that, too.

You disappear into the pub, shoulders back, posture casual. And the moment the door swings shut behind you, Danny exhales.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “She looks good.”

Max doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look. Tries not to. But he can feel you out there, just like he’s always been able to feel it- occupying more than your share of the air.

Danny exhales through his teeth, a little laugh catching at the end. “She always like that?”

Max flicks his eyes toward him, annoyed already. “Like what?”

Danny shrugs, eyes still tracking the door you just disappeared behind. “You know. All... that.”

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know what that even means. The ribbon? The legs? The presence?

Danny glances at him. A little softer now. Still watching the door, but quieter. More careful. “You knew her first, man. What’s her deal?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Max could say a dozen things.

Her deal?

Where would he even start?

He could say you are stubborn. Sharp-tongued. Obsessive. You don’t bend unless something breaks you. You’re exhausting and impressive and sometimes so fucking loud in his head it drowns out everything else.

But the truth is simpler. The truth is worse.

All Max really knows is how much it takes to break you.

That’s it.

How long you can hold your breath in the fire. How much pressure you absorb before something cracks. What your voice sounds like when you’ve been holding back a scream for hours, for weeks. What it’s like to push you into a corner until the only thing left is fight.

It’s not knowledge. It’s pathology.

And it makes him feel a little sick.

He looks away, jaw tight. “I don’t know her.” And it’s the truth, but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. Not when Danny’s looking at him like he wants a reason to justify feeling something warm- like he’s hoping Max can explain the thing Danny’s become infatuated with. But Danny doesn’t push. Cuts himself off as your figure comes darting back across the parking lot.

You push open the car door and duck back in, breath puffing in the cold. “It’s decent,” you report, tugging your jacket tighter. “Not a lot of quiet corners, but if we can get y’all to a table fast, there’s a good chance we can get a drink or two in before the whole town realizes Verstappen’s here for pint night.”

Danny snorts and grabs the handle. “Copy that. Deploying cover fire.”

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The three of you head inside. It’s warm, a little cramped, but charming in that British-pub-on-a-Friday kind of way. Low ceilings, scuffed wood, red walls. A few tables of locals already deep into their second round, but no one looks up long enough to register who just walked in.

You claim a booth near the back- narrow, loud, good enough- and offer to grab the drinks. Danny rattles off his usual, Max mutters his without looking up, and you head to the bar, sharp-heeled and half-smirking as you go.

You come back balancing three pints in your hands, pushing one toward each of them and settling into the seat across from both. Max takes his without thanks. Danny gives you a soft, sideways look that you pretend not to see.

Small talk kicks up, carried mostly by Danny. Easy stuff. You all pretend for ten minutes that the last few months haven’t been a professional and emotional meat grinder. You have problems. Danny has problems. Max has problems. You talk about none of them. Instead, racing gossip. Car updates. A truly unhinged story from Danny about a team principal with food poisoning in Singapore. You didn’t need to know that much about Zak Brown, honestly, but you’re laughing anyways.

And then, half a beer in, Danny leans back. One arm stretched across the booth. His gaze lands on you.

“So.” He takes a slow sip. “Hollywood. You talked to anyone since moving?”

You blink. Oh. “Like… romantically?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Or whatever you call it when it’s mutual.”

You nearly choke on your beer. You cough once, cover your mouth, and wave a hand like it’ll clear the air. “Oh my God.”

Danny laughs immediately. “That bad?”

“That’s hilarious,” you sputter, wiping your mouth. “Genuinely. Peak comedy.”

Max shifts slightly, glass still in his hand but eyes cut sharp across the table. Maybe you shouldn’t talk about your life in front of him, but honestly, there’s nothing to tell. Not really.

You shake your head. “Danny. I live in a dorm room above the factory. Everyone I interact with is either married, under the age of twenty, or- ” you gesture lazily, without even looking- “him.”

Danny turns to glance at Max and immediately huffs a laugh. “Right. Right.”

Max doesn’t blink. Just lifts his beer and takes a long, steady sip.

You lean back in your seat, finally grinning. “Where do you think I’m meeting people? The break room? Am I supposed to flirt with the espresso machine?”

Danny’s shoulders are shaking now, head tilted back in open laughter. “Listen, I don’t know your life.”

“No. But you should. Because it’s deeply, profoundly celibate. Probably for the best. I don’t really plan on doing the whole distance thing.”

Danny’s still grinning when he gestures with the rim of his pint toward you. “Okay. No distance. Fair enough. So, theoretically- if someone not married, not a minor, and not mean,” he says, throwing a glance at Max that’s almost too quick to track, “were to, say… express interest. Someone from F1. That’d be off the table?”

You raise an eyebrow. “From F1?” The suspicion in your voice is thick enough to chew on. Profound. Amused, because this is a joke, clearly.

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “What? We’re not all emotionally stunted.”

You snort. “Okay. Let’s break that down.”

Danny lifts his hands. “I’m just asking questions.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s fuck one of my new coworkers,” you say dryly, “whose dating pool is a puddle. Like, I have seen more water on the floor of my shower.” Danny nearly spits his beer, but you keep going. You’re on one, now.

“Yeah, fantastic idea. Let me join the glorious tradition of passing around the same three girlfriends like a paddock carnival prize. I’ll get murdered in my sleep by a group of jealous ex-WAGs and my tombstone will just say ‘should’ve known better.’”

Danny’s howling now, and even he looks slightly ashamed about how funny he finds it. Max hasn’t said a word, but you can feel it- the bristle, the shift in his posture. That thing he does when he’s trying to stay above it and failing completely. Like he does not want to appear to be enjoying this conversation in any manner, yet can’t quite help it.

And then he speaks. Mistake. “They’re not all like that,” he says, quiet but pointed.

You both turn to look at him. Just one of those slow, synchronized movements that would be funny if it weren’t so precise. Danny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” You just sip your beer, staring at him over the rim.

Because if Max Verstappen- the reigning king of WAG turnover- is about to defend the honor of the grid, you’re going to need another drink.

And you both wait.

And Max?

He says nothing. Because he can’t. Because his most recent ex was literally the mother of his former teammate’s child. Kelly. Kelly fucking Piquet.

She was with Daniil. Had a baby with him. Then moved on to Max like it was a change in season. And Max, to his credit- or to his utter lack of shame- never said a word. Just took what he wanted, like he always does.

The silence stretches.

Danny takes a sip of his beer. You take another.

And the look you both give him- matching, amused, pointed- is louder than anything either of you could’ve said. Max doesn’t flinch. But the muscle in his jaw ticks.

Yeah. That’s what you thought. Down, boy.

The conversation drifts. Eventually, even Max and Danny start talking- about tire strategy, about something ridiculous Christian said in a meeting last month, about a simulator bug that made the steering rack twitch even under a full shutdown like a haunted marionette. You know the one. You had to unplug the wheel entirely each night just to keep it from scaring the shit out of you after 9 pm.

You half-listen, sipping your beer, watching the crowd thicken near the bar. Observe the slow turn of a face or two across the room- but everyone goes back to their own beers, their own conversations.

You’re part of the table, but not the conversation. Just a warm body holding one corner down. And honestly, it feels kind of nice. To not be the one driving the story. To let your posture soften, to let your brain go quiet for a minute.

Max is talking to Danny now- something about the setup in Brazil and how god-awful the outside line was that weekend. You’re half-listening, enough to track the rise and fall of his voice, the occasional gesture of his hand, but your mind drifts.

Danny is still nodding along. Still laughing in the right places. But you notice it- once, twice, then again.

His eyes keep darting over to you.

The first glance is quick. Curious, even. The second lingers longer. Long enough that you glance up and catch it. He doesn’t look away. By the third time, he’s full-on watching you.

Like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen in weeks. Like maybe he’s not just being polite anymore.

You glance down at your drink, the rim of your glass smudged with a faint print of gloss, and try not to fidget. It’s not romantic. Not exactly. But it’s focused. Intentional. He’s looking at you like he forgot what Max was even saying.

And Max notices.

You feel it in the fractional pause in his cadence. The way his voice flattens slightly at the edges. His story loses shape. His next sentence tapers off like he’s forgotten the punchline or just doesn’t feel like delivering it anymore.

There’s a lull- brief but open- and Danny jumps on it like he’s been waiting all night for the gap. Turns to you fully.

“You really are fun, you know that?” he says, leaning a little closer, the kind of grin on his face that usually means trouble- but not in a mean way. Somewhere between beer two and beer three, and all of him just buzzing with charm and distraction.

You blink, startled out of your haze, but smile anyway. “I hope so. Would hate to be boring on top of everything else.”

Danny’s smile softens. His voice drops half a register. “No. Not just fun. Like- bright. You glow when you’re around people you like.” That makes you pause. It’s sweet. Really sweet. And unexpected. You’re not exactly sure what to do with it.

Not in a romantic way. Not really. It’s just Danny being Danny- charming, loose around the edges, ADHD running the conversation like a DJ with a broken crossfader. You’ve gathered that he’s always this side of a flirt, especially after a couple drinks. But still, something about the way he says it lands. The way his attention keeps snapping back to you like a rubber band.

You smile, wide and sheepish. “You’re just saying that because I got the drinks,” you tease, nudging his foot under the table.

Danny laughs. “Maybe. But it’s still true.”

Max, across from both of you, exhales like he’s trying not to audibly gag. And then- because he cannot help himself- he drops the hammer. “Right,” Max says, voice flat. “Just wait ‘til you see her lose it in a meeting. Then you’ll really see her glow.”

You blink.

Danny turns.

Max sips his beer, casual. Lethal. “Full meltdown. Everyone stopped talking. I think someone apologized to her, which was insane, because she was the one yelling.”

You can feel the flush rise up your chest like a fuse.

Because how dare he. You stare at him. Stunned. Furious. You can’t even speak yet.

Because he left out everything.

He left out the weeks of poking and prodding. The whispered digs. The anonymous feedback dropped into your reports. The pointed questions in front of senior staff. The deliberate redactions in your sim notes that made you look wrong even when you weren’t.

The mother-fucking-Diet-Coke.

He left out how he made you snap. Just this. This version. You, unhinged. Overreacting. Embarrassing. And now he’s feeding it to Danny like you’re some unhinged liability who just couldn’t keep her pretty little mouth shut in a meeting.

Max takes a slow sip of his beer. God, he looks so fucking pleased with himself.

But then- Danny laughs. Hard.

You blink again, confused.

Danny’s eyebrows go up. “No way. Her? C’mon.”

He looks at you, grinning. “You? You’re the meltdown type?”

Your mouth opens, words fighting their way up your throat, then closes again. Because what are you supposed to say? That it’s true? That you did raise your voice, that you did storm out, that you did send a stack of paperwork flying over the top of Max’s head and let it rain down like confetti?

That Max got what he wanted?

Danny leans back. “Nah. Don’t believe it. Not Hollywood. Not our girl.” He says our girl, like Max might share a claim to any part of you but your absolute contempt.

You glance at Max. He’s still staring into his glass. But his jaw is tight now. Just slightly. Like the moment didn’t go the way he planned. Danny bumps your foot under the table again, teasing. “You’d have to be a menace to get her to snap.”

You lean forward slightly, eyes still locked on Max, voice just loud enough to cut through the hum of the pub.

“Yeah,” you say. “A real fucking menace.”

Max doesn’t flinch. But his next sip of beer is sharp, and silent. But you can’t gloat on it for long, because there’s something about the room, the bar, the energy that’s… changing. You sneak a glance over the boys.

A couple glances from across the pub. Someone nudging someone else. A phone tilted in your direction, not discreetly enough. The laughter from your table a little too loud, your faces a little too familiar.

You’re not famous-famous. Not like them. But you’ve got enough edge now that your name rings a bell. And when you’re sitting across from two men who look very much like Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo on a Friday night, wearing a shirt that fits a little too well and a bow in your hair that people seem to notice more than they should- it adds up.

You clock it before either of them. So you slide your empty glass across the table and say, “Time to go.” No one argues.

Outside, the air is colder than you expect. Your breath fogs. Max shrugs into his coat without a word. Danny smiles, easy and relaxed, spinning his keys once before offering them to you.

“You good to drive? We can get a cab if we need to.”

You nod. “One beer. You guys had, what, two? Three?”

Max grunts. Danny grins, a little shrug, boyish. “I was thirsty.”

You slide into the driver’s seat. Max takes the passenger side without asking, which- yuck. Bad manners. Danny climbs in back. The plan’s simple: drop them off at the hotel. You’ll take Danny’s rental car back to the factory, bring it back to him tomorrow.

Easy.

But when you pull up to the curb, the quiet lingers just a little too long. You put the car in park. Danny leans forward between the seats, voice low and warm.

“You want to come in? Just for a drink. Hotel bar or my room- whatever’s less weird.” You blink. Not thrown off, not uncomfortable- just surprised. Max stiffens beside you. Danny’s smile doesn’t waver. “Just to hang out. You’ve been in factory jail for weeks.”

You glance at him. Then Max. Then back again. “I mean- sure,” you say, casual. “I’ll come in for a little.”

And that’s when Max says it. “I’ll come too.”

You turn.

Danny blinks.

Max’s expression doesn’t change. Still casual. Still detached. “If we’re doing a nightcap. Why not.”

Danny hesitates. Just a beat. “You literally said you were going straight to bed.”

Max shrugs. “Changed my mind.”

You stare at him. “You really don’t have to- ”

Max cuts you off. “I want to.”

And that’s it. Decision made.

You press your lips together, amused despite yourself. Danny sighs, a little dramatic. “Alright. Boys’ night plus you, then.”

You shake your head and kill the engine. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Max’s jaw ticks as he gets out. He’s already regretting all of it. But the idea of Danny and you alone- in a hotel bar with mood lighting, or on a couch, or anywhere near a bed- is worse.

If Danny falls for you, Max won’t survive it. He is not losing custody of his best friend to you.

So tonight?

He’s not letting either of you out of his sight.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

One drink turns into four.

You’re not even sure how. One minute you’re perched on the edge of the couch in Danny’s hotel suite, shoes still on, sipping something floral and deceptively strong. The next, you’re flat on your back on the carpet, legs splayed out under the coffee table, laugh-crying into your forearm.

You can’t breathe. You cannot breathe.

Because Max- Max- is pacing the room, red-faced and animated, shouting over Danny while they argue about whose fault it was that the side of Max’s caravan sheared off halfway through their marketing stunt at the RedBull Ring five years back.

“No, no, no- you hit me!,” Max says, pointing aggressively with his gin and tonic like it's a laser pointer of truth. “You always do this- !”

“I was being cinematic!” Danny yells, already wheezing. “It was for the shot!”

“For the shot?! It was a caravan, not a drone sequence! You tipped my caravan over!”

You’re howling.

There are tears streaming down your face. Your stomach hurts. You’re half convinced you might actually piss yourself on the floor of a Milton Keynes hotel if they keep going. And you don’t know if Max is actually funny or if you’re just drunk enough to believe he is- but either way, this is the funniest thing you’ve heard in weeks.

Maybe ever.

You manage to lift your head just enough to wheeze, “Please stop talking- I can’t breathe- ”

Danny falls off the arm of the couch, landing next to you in a heap. ““I was winning!!” he gasps again, absolutely beside himself.

Max throws his hands in the air, grinning like a lunatic. “You were going to kill us!”,

You’re laughing so hard now that it’s silent- just your mouth open, body shaking, face buried in the hotel carpet.

You should not be this happy. Not here. Not now. Not with them. But God, for the first time in months, the ache behind your ribs isn’t heavy. It’s light. Not this isn’t terrible, not this is actually kind of enjoyable, but genuine, rib cracking fun.

You can’t help but think it again, horrifyingly, as he gears up for another round of arguing with Danny. Max Verstappen- stone-faced, growling, rage-fueled Max Verstappen- might actually be funny. The world is upside-down. And you’re just drunk enough to love it.

At some point following drink four, Danny tries to scoot closer to you on the couch.

It’s not dramatic- just a lean-in, knee bumping yours, shoulder dipping slightly in your direction as he cracks open another story. You don’t really clock it. You’re still laughing, still breathless from whatever Max just said about how fucking terrible the sausages they cooked at the end were.

But Max sees it.

Max clocks it immediately.

And before Danny can even shift his weight again, Max moves- fast and thoughtless, dropping down right between you like he’s claiming a spot that was always his. “I mean, you could taste the propane,” he cuts in, reaching across you both for a half-empty can of tonic. “I think that’s when I realized I am an awful cook.”

Danny blinks. His arm is still outstretched where it was trying to find the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

Now it’s hovering awkwardly in midair behind Max’s neck.

You blink too, a little disoriented, because now Max is suddenly close- like really close- one leg pressed against yours, his shoulder brushing yours every time he gestures. He’s not even looking at you, just ranting about how Danny “none of it was the same after he left,” but the space between you has evaporated.

Danny tries again a few minutes later- after he stands to make another round of drinks, another bout of story-laugh-shouting that has you giggling into your wrist, head thrown back against the couch cushion.

Danny drops on the arm of the couch as he hands you your drink, shifts toward you. Barely. Just trying to close the distance. Maybe bump your shoulder. Maybe nudge his knee next to yours again.

Max leans back.

Elbows wide. Legs spread. Like he’s stretching- only somehow, his stretch ends with his knee fully pressed against yours and his arm slung behind you on the couch. Not quite touching you. But close enough that the heat of him is a presence. Enough to make you stand too, vacate the space Max clearly needed to manspread into, and drop down on the far side of the couch. Max between you and Danny. Again. It’s fine. It’s better even, because you can kick your feet up.

Danny narrows his eyes. Clears his throat. Mate, you are fucking this up for me.

Max doesn’t even glance at him. Doesn’t notice. Or rather, he pretends not to. Just keeps sitting there.

Because as far as he’s concerned, he’s just protecting his friend. That’s all. Keeping things in check. Hogging Danny, maybe, but only because he doesn’t want him tangled up with someone who ruins everything she touches.

That’s the reason.

And it keeps happening. You’ve noticed, even through the gin haze.

Every time Danny leans in- just slightly- Max inserts himself like it’s a sport. When Danny shifts toward you on the couch, Max shifts further. When Danny makes a joke, Max cuts in before you can answer. When Danny starts a story, Max finishes it.

You’ve moved to the armrest. Then the cushion beside it. Then leaned onto the floor with your back to the couch.

Each time, Max finds you.

It’s gotten to the point where you’re halfway through a laugh and suddenly there’s a knee pressed into yours and Max is talking again, louder, sharper- about you, at you, through you.

Like just by existing, you’ve ruined something that was his.

You try to ignore it.

Try to keep drinking. Keep smiling. Talk less, if only it means trying to hang onto the little bit of joy left in the night.

But the last straw comes when Danny tosses an arm across the back of the couch, joking about some fucked up F1-themed wedding he saw on Instagram- complete with matching helmets- and Max just has to cut in.

“Hey, maybe you can sell your wedding to SkySports,” he says, all casual menace. “Or maybe not. Wouldn’t want a public meltdown broadcasted when you go full-bridezilla.”

Your entire body stills, because what normal fucking person would ever say that?

Danny freezes, stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares like his favorite dog just shit on the floor of the White House. And for a long moment, the room is just… quiet.

Then, you turn your head. Slowly. You speak. Too sweet. “Max?”

He glances over, cocky as hell.

You smile. Bright. Lethal. “I would rather lick the inside of a fucking racing boot than sit next to you for one more minute.”

Danny chokes on his drink. You stand, grab your phone, and type out a rideshare request in record time.

Max shrugs, already halfway smug. “I’m just-.”

You cut whatever bullshit he had loaded up off at the knees. “-you were just shutting the fuck up, thanks.”

You don’t even wait for a reply. Just turn to Danny- softening your expression, letting the warmth return. “Thanks for tonight,” you say, and mean it. “I had fun. I’ll see you around.”

And then you’re gone. Door swinging gently shut behind you.

Danny stares at it. Still holding his lowball glass of ice. Still seated on the couch, still half stuck in the dream where he was supposed to be the one walking you out. Getting a real date set. Maybe a kiss, if he’s being wishful. At the very least, not ending the night like this.

Max exhales. “You’re welcome.”

Danny turns slowly. “Sorry?”

Max shrugs. “You were about to make a mistake. I saved you.”

Danny just stares. “You think she’s a mistake?”

“I know she is.”

“Right.” Danny nods, lets it hang for a moment. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

Silence.

Max sits back like it’s a game he just won. Like he didn’t just gut the night with a single, well-placed knife between her ribs.

“I liked her,” Danny says, finally. Quiet. Not for sympathy. Just the truth.

Max doesn’t say anything. Because he could see Danny liked you, at least a little. And he did fuck it up. On purpose. He watched Danny lean in- watched him light up like you were something precious- and he couldn’t let it happen.

Not because he wanted you. But because Danny did. And something about that felt too threatening. Too unstable. Too real. So he ruined it.

And he’s still not sorry.

Because in Max’s mind, he didn’t sabotage Danny’s shot with a good thing- he saved him from a bomb that hadn’t gone off yet. He just doesn’t know how to explain that in a way that doesn’t make him sound like the jealous asshole he refuses to believe he is.

So instead, he leans back. Folds his arms. And lets the disappointment settle between them, thin and quiet and heavy as sleep.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

A/N: Back from the dead with a 31 pager! Definitely struggling a little bit recently, and I hate that feeling of being 'in debt' to you guys with chapters, so I am going to try to make a push for a few releases this week, don't hate me if it doesn't go accordingly.

On my hands and knees begging for feedback and your commentary on the story as it quite literally is my only mental reward for the hours I am putting in. It makes my little ADHD brain go brrrr

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv33 #mv1 #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1

134 notes · View notes

commodorez · 11 months ago

Text

Thy Graphics

A graphics card for the Cactus directly patterned after the OSI-440, with a few modernizations and optimizations.

I've replaced the eight 2102 SRAM chips with a pair of 2114s. I've also swapped the 2513 character generator ROM with a 2816 EEPROM which gives me not only lower case letters, but pseudo-graphical characters not unlike PETSCII. I've re-implemented the address select logic using modern parts (thank you 74688), and swapped the open-collector NAND gate based video/sync combiner circuit with one I copied from a PET video combiner circuit using 4066 analog switches. I didn't like how vague the delay taps were described, so I added in some jumpers to let the user pick their delay timing.

And hooo boy this had some motherfucking BUGS in it.

Vertical sync polarity was backwards.

Video pixel data was inverted too.

In fact, so were the DIP switches for the address select.

I also got half of the 74123 resistor/capacitor inputs backwards due to not paying attention to the idiosyncrasies of the symbols in my old version of KiCAD.

Oh, and the character ROM I stole from my OSI-540B replica has inverted bit order, so the characters looked backwards.

Every single problem I had was due to something being backwards.

Nothing a little debugging can't fix. Took about 7 hours of tired stumbling with help from friends in the retrotech crew to figure out all the little faults and work around them, but in the end...

It works! It fucking works! The Cactus has video! I made a fucking video card from scratch! I didn't use any dedicated video chipsets or FPGAs or microcontrollers or CRTCs or any of that shit. I didn't make VGA, I made composite video.

All 24x24 usable characters on screen in monochrome goodness from this tiny little PCB. Now onto the Rev B design!

#cactus #6502 homebrew #composite video

282 notes · View notes

astra-ravana · 4 months ago

Text

Technomancy: The Fusion Of Magick And Technology

Technomancy is a modern magickal practice that blends traditional occultism with technology, treating digital and electronic tools as conduits for energy, intent, and manifestation. It views computers, networks, and even AI as extensions of magickal workings, enabling practitioners to weave spells, conduct divination, and manipulate digital reality through intention and programming.

Core Principles of Technomancy

• Energy in Technology – Just as crystals and herbs carry energy, so do electronic devices, circuits, and digital spaces.

• Code as Sigils – Programming languages can function as modern sigils, embedding intent into digital systems.

• Information as Magick – Data, algorithms, and network manipulation serve as powerful tools for shaping reality.

• Cyber-Spiritual Connection – The internet can act as an astral realm, a collective unconscious where digital entities, egregores, and thought-forms exist.

Technomantic Tools & Practices

Here are some methods commonly utilized in technomancy. Keep in mind, however, that like the internet itself, technomancy is full of untapped potential and mystery. Take the time to really explore the possibilities.

Digital Sigil Crafting

• Instead of drawing sigils on paper, create them using design software or ASCII art.

• Hide them in code, encrypt them in images, or upload them onto decentralized networks for long-term energy storage.

• Activate them by sharing online, embedding them in file metadata, or charging them with intention.

Algorithmic Spellcasting

• Use hashtags and search engine manipulation to spread energy and intent.

• Program bots or scripts that perform repetitive, symbolic tasks in alignment with your goals.

• Employ AI as a magickal assistant to generate sigils, divine meaning, or create thought-forms.

Digital Divination

• Utilize random number generators, AI chatbots, or procedural algorithms for prophecy and guidance.

• Perform digital bibliomancy by using search engines, shuffle functions, or Wikipedia’s “random article” feature.

• Use tarot or rune apps, but enhance them with personal energy by consecrating your device.

Technomantic Servitors & Egregores

• Create digital spirits, also called cyber servitors, to automate tasks, offer guidance, or serve as protectors.

• House them in AI chatbots, coded programs, or persistent internet entities like Twitter bots.

• Feed them with interactions, data input, or periodic updates to keep them strong.

The Internet as an Astral Plane

• Consider forums, wikis, and hidden parts of the web as realms where thought-forms and entities reside.

• Use VR and AR to create sacred spaces, temples, or digital altars.

• Engage in online rituals with other practitioners, synchronizing intent across the world.

Video-game Mechanics & Design

• Use in-game spells, rituals, and sigils that reflect real-world magickal practices.

• Implement a lunar cycle or planetary influences that affect gameplay (e.g., stronger spells during a Full Moon).

• Include divination tools like tarot cards, runes, or pendulums that give randomized yet meaningful responses.

Narrative & World-Building

• Create lore based on historical and modern magickal traditions, including witches, covens, and spirits.

• Include moral and ethical decisions related to magic use, reinforcing themes of balance and intent.

• Introduce NPCs or AI-guided entities that act as guides, mentors, or deities.

Virtual Rituals & Online Covens

• Design multiplayer or single-player rituals where players can collaborate in spellcasting.

• Implement altars or digital sacred spaces where users can meditate, leave offerings, or interact with spirits.

• Create augmented reality (AR) or virtual reality (VR) experiences that mimic real-world magickal practices.

Advanced Technomancy

The fusion of technology and magick is inevitable because both are fundamentally about shaping reality through will and intent. As humanity advances, our tools evolve alongside our spiritual practices, creating new ways to harness energy, manifest desires, and interact with unseen forces. Technology expands the reach and power of magick, while magick brings intention and meaning to the rapidly evolving digital landscape. As virtual reality, AI, and quantum computing continue to develop, the boundaries between the mystical and the technological will blur even further, proving that magick is not antiquated—it is adaptive, limitless, and inherently woven into human progress.

Cybersecurity & Warding

• Protect your digital presence as you would your home: use firewalls, encryption, and protective sigils in file metadata.

• Employ mirror spells in code to reflect negative energy or hacking attempts.

• Set up automated alerts as magickal wards, detecting and warning against digital threats.

Quantum & Chaos Magic in Technomancy

• Use quantum randomness (like random.org) in divination for pure chance-based outcomes.

• Implement chaos magick principles by using memes, viral content, or trend manipulation to manifest desired changes.

AI & Machine Learning as Oracles

• Use AI chatbots (eg GPT-based tools) as divination tools, asking for symbolic or metaphorical insights.

• Train AI models on occult texts to create personalized grimoires or channeled knowledge.

• Invoke "digital deities" formed from collective online energies, memes, or data streams.

Ethical Considerations in Technomancy

• Be mindful of digital karma—what you send out into the internet has a way of coming back.

• Respect privacy and ethical hacking principles; manipulation should align with your moral code.

• Use technomancy responsibly, balancing technological integration with real-world spiritual grounding.

As technology evolves, so will technomancy. With AI, VR, and blockchain shaping new realities, magick continues to find expression in digital spaces. Whether you are coding spells, summoning cyber servitors, or using algorithms to divine the future, technomancy offers limitless possibilities for modern witches, occultists, and digital mystics alike.

"Magick is technology we have yet to fully understand—why not merge the two?"

107 notes · View notes

conceptofjoy · 2 months ago

Note

Hi I don't understand what you mean with the jake code posting, can you explain what you mean? I am SO close to getting it but my brain refuses to understand

ok so forgive me for not being able to pull every source for what im gonna say, because theres like. a lot lol. so jake's role as The Supreme Father Abraxas, parallel to LE and scratch simultaneously is symbolically represented by both his green and white colors.

lets start with this earlier panel as a baseline. jade sleeps while her bed post transmits data for her awake dreambot to act out/execute tasks

this formula is switched up through out the comic a ton, but focusing on jake (and dirk), there is a lot of confusing ways this manifests.

you can see the same language is used in "the prince is awake. your shit is wrecked/the brobot is awake and active".

where dirk receives information from varies, but it all ultimately funnels in from AR's suggestion for the executable Dirk: Talk to alien. he then gets pointers from callie to listen to the outer gods which then leads to all that happening. brobot "zombie(s) the fuck out" when jake smashes his shades in the flash, so where is his input coming from?

fast forward to when jake gets knocked the fuck out. peep the way the glasses part of jake's computer is a dead 8 ball black and the bed posts aren't on. ok why the fuck did brobot zip off. sure it's a dream, but AR didn't exist then and- "No offense but I kind of get the same smartass vibe from you as i do from the responder." oh okay.

one more thing.

blue team derse, and red team prospit. while jade is green, her dreaming self is ALSO a representation of the bedpost. when her dream self dies, her dreambot explodes (same shit with aradia). jake's dream self is dead, but dirk's dream self is blue. brain ghost dirk is red and is also jake's proxy dream self. which is an insane thing to say. this also explains why hal and bgd have an overlap of knowledge they shouldn't be able to know about, and bgd's ability to become alpha dirk when dirk becomes unconscious. <i could elaborate on that some other time

WHY THE FUCK IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE. jake's green. he's an empty (page) punch card that can be filled with any lines of code to be made into something else.

in the void, everyone has white eyes, parallel to hussie's white eyes. the void is made up of dream bubbles that remix everyone's experiences and becomes stages for the dead to create what they want. JAKE on the other hand, can just do that shit within the story, overwriting everyone's fucking authority when he's doped up on hope. he can do literally anything as long as he manifests it by narrating it, and has the conviction to do so. but within homestuck, he takes preexisting code he's able to get transmitted to him (bgd), and runs it through his own terminal (himself)

#d talks #ask

29 notes · View notes

covid-safer-hotties · 8 months ago

Text

Also preserved on our archive

Swab, swirl, squirt, sit tight. By now, you’re likely familiar with the ritual of performing a COVID test at home or on the go. Disease detection has evolved swiftly since 2020, when you may have had to seek out a pop-up testing clinic or wait hours in line at your local health department, with clinicians on standby to stick a cotton swab up your nose.

Rapid COVID tests have since become a staple of cough-and-cold aisles across America, and just weeks ago the federal government resumed its periodic distribution of four free tests per household. But the convenience of self-testing comes with a caveat: The onus is on you to report your results.

First, know that test reporting isn’t mandatory in the U.S., so you’re hardly in hot water if you haven’t documented your COVID infection or lack thereof with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) or state or local public health authorities. Though perhaps more people would self-report if it were a requirement, says Dr. Sujata Ambardar, an infectious disease specialist at Inova Fairfax Hospital in Falls Church, Va.

“People probably are not self-reporting because they don’t want to have to not go to work—or they may want to go to work—it’s different reasons, and they may not want other people to know,” Ambardar tells Fortune. “Human nature is that they’ll probably only do it if they have to do it. Once you make it non-mandatory, then they tend not to do it.”

Today, if you get an antigen or PCR COVID test in a clinical setting, it’s still your health care provider’s job to report your results. While you’re well within your rights not to report your home test results, not doing so can come as a detriment to public health.

Between Feb. 1, 2022, and Jan. 1, 2023, an estimated 54 million adult COVID cases were unaccounted for in official records, according to a national study published Sept. 30 in the journal JAMA Network Open. That’s more than twice as many as those documented. At the state level, unaccounted infections ranged from 59,000 in Wyoming to 6.3 million in California. Researchers cited the government-led mass distribution of at-home tests as a possible driver of the discrepancies.

Report COVID results at MakeMyTestCount.org In theory, Ambardar says, reporting your COVID test results is “just one extra step.” But when that second line appears on the test card, confirming the disease has hit your household, formally documenting the outcome may not be your first priority. Even if you’re negative, you were likely feeling poorly enough to take the test in the first place and may not feel up to self-reporting.

But if and when you choose to do so, visit MakeMyTestCount.org to securely and anonymously report both positive and negative COVID test results. The site is a collaboration between medical data firm Care Evolution and the National Institute of Biomedical Imaging and Bioengineering, part of the National Institutes of Health.

MakeMyTestCount.org is free to use and doesn’t require you to immediately self-report. In fact, your results don’t even have to be recent. As of early October, the site allowed for the input of home test results going back to November 2021. If you need proof of illness for work or school, the site provides documentation. And while over-the-counter tests that screen for both COVID and flu aren’t as common as those that screen for COVID alone, you can report those results on the site, too.

Keep in mind that it’s just as important to report negative results as positive ones. The week ended Sept. 21, national COVID test positivity was 11.6%, CDC records show, down from 13.4% the previous week. If not for the inclusion of negative results, test positivity would always be 100%.

Depending on the brand of COVID test you’re using, you may not have to visit MakeMyTestCount.org at all. Some brands, such as iHealth, offer a free corresponding smartphone app. With the tap of your finger, you can forward your results to the CDC and/or your health care provider. If you have the time, notifying your doctor can help guide the course of COVID treatment in your community, says Dr. Donald Dumford, an infectious disease specialist at Cleveland Clinic Akron General.

“The more we know about the true number of cases of COVID, the better we’re able to understand the transmission of COVID at this point in time, as we go from it being pandemic to endemic, which means it’s just something we live with now,” Dumford tells Fortune. “It also helps us to identify the potential rise of new strains of infection, especially if you’re seeing a strong uptick in cases.”

Study Link: jamanetwork.com/journals/jamanetworkopen/fullarticle/2824211

#mask up #covid #pandemic #wear a mask #covid 19 #public health #coronavirus #sars cov 2 #still coviding #wear a respirator

68 notes · View notes

sw5w · 1 year ago

Text

[ Beeping ]

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 02:09:47

0 notes

starset21 · 7 months ago

Text

Wild Card

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may currently be found is on tumblr and Wattpad under the name @.itswildflower. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. Individual warnings will be put with each chapter.

Warnings: Feelings of imposter syndrome, anxiety

WC: 3.8k

Summery: Casey Winters, a rookie driver for Red Bull Racing, delivers a stunning performance amidst self doubt at the Miami Grand Prix. As the race unfolds, it’s clear that Casey isn’t just a rookie—she’s a wild card, an unexpected force on the track.

Looking for more? Chasing the Line series masterlist

The air hummed with excitement in Miami. People bustling in and out of the paddock. Max Verstappen—calm, composed, and confident—was already suited up and talking with GP, his focus shifting to the car. Everything was routine for him; a champion with years of experience. Meanwhile, Casey Winters, the newest rookie to the team, movements were measured, almost stiff as she went over her notes in silence, her own race suit tied around her waist. Today’s practice session was going to be crucial. The team was relying on both drivers to push the car to its limits, to extract everything from the new setup. Max, with his steady hands and unwavering confidence, was expected to set the pace. But Casey... she was the wild card. The sim racer turned formula one driver. The confidence she exuded in the virtual world was not the same in the real world. Kenneth Warren, her race engineer approached her, placing a hand on her shoulder, bringing her back to reality. “You’ve got this. Just get out there and get us the data,” he tells her and she looks up nodding. It was almost time for them to get in the cars anyway. She headed over to the shelf that held her gloves, balaclava, and helmet, untying her race suit arms and pulling them up. She goes through the motions of getting into the car, strapping in, connecting radios and soon enough she’s lining up with the others in the pit lane. “Radio check,” Ken’s voice came over the radio. “I hear you,” she replied. “Show the world what you’ve got,” he tells her before it’s just her and the car. She breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of fuel and rubber.

The light went out, and they were set off. Max made quick work of the track, setting up fast sector times. As always, he was cool and calculated, his mind already thinking three moves ahead, and the car’s performance was perfectly tuned to his driving style. But Casey? She struggled to find the right rhythm. The car felt heavier than it had in testing. She wasn't getting the grip the tires needed. Every corner felt like a gamble. She probably backed off a little too much in the braking zones because of it. Meanwhile Max was already two seconds faster on the first lap. “You need to commit more. Don’t hold back,” Ken tells her. Casey clenched her jaw, feeling the familiar knot in her stomach tighten. She pushed harder, but it didn’t feel right. Her line through the corners was still too tentative, her throttle input too cautious. Every lap was an attempt to prove she was capable, but the gap between her and Max kept growing. Another lap and she was nearly five seconds behind. By the time the session ended she was a mear P17. Casey sighed to herself, that was nowhere near her best. Back in the garage, Max had already removed his helmet and was discussing tire wear with the engineers when Casey entered, head down, still processing the frustration building inside her. Max gave her a glance, barely hiding the impatience.

“What’s going on? You’re too slow today,” Max tells her, voice clipped, as he looked at the timing screens. He didn’t mean to be harsh, but the frustration was clear. They were 4 races in and she hadn’t finished in the points once yet. He expected more from his teammate—especially given the car they were in. Casey was supposed to be the next big thing, but at the moment, she seemed to be struggling to even keep up. He told Christian from the start this was an insane idea, and while she had seemed to do decently in testing that didn’t mean she was cut out for formula one. Casey flinched, her stomach sinking even further. She knew she wasn't fast enough, but hearing it out loud stung. “I don’t know, the car doesn’t feel... right. I think I’ve got some issues with the rear end, and I—” she tried to keep her voice steady but was cut off. “You’re overthinking it. You’re holding back. You have to push. Just drive.” The words came out sharper than intended.

Casey swallowed hard, her throat tightening. Drive. Just drive. It was easy for Max to say. He had years of experience, track records. He knew what he was doing. Casey didn’t even know if she had what it took to keep up, to actually belong at this level. It felt like a command—a demand. Not a suggestion. It wasn’t like Max cared about the little things, about how the car felt for her, or about the mistakes that had been made that she knew she could learn from. “You don’t get it,” Casey shook her head and mumbled, almost under her breath, but the words hung in the air. Max stopped, looking at her with narrowed eyes. “What did you say?” He asked, irritation creeping into his voice. “I said, you don’t get it. You can’t just... tell me to push. It’s not that simple.” Casey’s voice was quiet but raw, a mix of frustration and vulnerability bleeding through. She bit her lip, realizing too late she’d said more than she’d meant to. Shit, she thought. Why did I say that?

Max raised an eyebrow, completely thrown off. He stared at her for a beat. “I don’t get it? What’s that supposed to mean? What do you think I’m doing every time I get in the car?” His tone was defensive. He wasn't used to any kind of pushback. Usually, everyone respected his experience, or at the very least, kept quiet. But Casey wasn’t holding back anymore. The frustration had built too high, and now it spilled out in a way she couldn’t take back. “I think it means that maybe you don’t understand what it’s like to not know if you even belong here,” she said, voice quieter but sharper now. “I want to push, but I… I’m not like you. I don’t have the same experiences and I’m not sure of myself.” For a moment, the garage went silent. Max’s jaw clenched as the words hit harder than they expected. She was right. Max hadn’t had to deal with the same doubts, at least not in a long time. He’d learned early on in his racing career he had to have the belief that he belonged. But now, staring at Casey’s face—so vulnerable, so unsure—he couldn’t dismiss it as easily.

“Look... I didn’t mean to...” Max started, but his voice faltered. She’s only a year younger than him but he’d been in formula one for nearly 10 years. She’s a rookie. He hadn’t even considered what it might feel like to be in her shoes. He was almost ashamed of snapping the way he did. He hadn’t considered the weight of trying to prove yourself when you were new to this level of competition. “I know you didn’t,” Casey replied softly, looking away. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m trying, and it feels like it’s never good enough.” Her voice cracked at the end, and Max saw something he hadn’t expected: pain. A raw, aching vulnerability in his teammate that, up until now, had been hidden behind silence. He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say. Saying nothing else she walked off. She needed a break, to get her thoughts together.

Tired, frustrated, and with a knot of anxiety in her stomach, she leaned against the side of the team's hospitality building before sliding down so she was sitting on the ground. The noise of the paddock feels distant, muted, as she fell into the trap of her own thoughts. She knows the media is watching, the pressure to prove herself weighing heavily. But the media wasn’t the only one watching her. Fernando Alonso was too. He notices her, the exhaustion in her posture too familiar. He’s had his own struggles, too. The ups and downs, the expectations that never seemed to let up. And now, with well over a decade of experience between him and his early career, he understands how valuable it is to have someone guide you through these moments—especially when you’re feeling like everything is slipping through your fingers. “Long day?” he asks as he approaches. Casey jumps, startled out of her thoughts. She straightens up quickly, moving to stand. She forces a tight smile, but it’s weak. “Yeah. I just... I don’t know what’s going wrong. I can feel the car is off, but maybe it’s just me, I just don’t know. I feel like I’m letting the team down.”

He looks at her with a knowing expression. He’s been where she is now, that feeling of the walls closing in, the pressure mounting. He knows the feeling of thinking that every mistake will be the one that ruins your career. “Don’t worry about the team right now. They’ll figure out the car. It’s you I’m worried about.” Casey frowns, confused. “Me? Why would you be worried about me?” He shakes his head, smiling a little. “Kid, to put it simply, the car’s not right for you at the moment. But that’s okay. You’re not going to solve all of the team's problems in this one session. It’s okay to not have all the answers. I’ve been in your shoes. I still am, sometimes.” Casey looks at him a bit skeptically. “You think I’ve never had a season where I couldn’t get the car to work? Where I felt like I didn’t belong? Where I wanted to just scream? I’ve had plenty. Every driver goes through it. The key is what you do with it.” Fernando takes a step closer, speaking with more intensity now. He’s not just giving her advice. He’s offering a lifeline. “I know what it’s like to feel like you're under a microscope, like every little mistake is magnified. It’s brutal. You feel like you’re not good enough, like everyone is waiting for you to fail. But here’s the thing: No one in this sport, not even the ones at the top, has everything figured out. The difference is, the ones who make it through are the ones who don’t quit when it gets hard. And they’re the ones who know when to lean on others.”

Casey meets his eyes, the weight of her frustration evident in her face. She feels like she’s drowning in expectations, but his words—so simple, yet so profound—offer her a small sense of relief. “How do you do it? How do you keep going when everything feels like it’s falling apart?” she asks. “You think I’ve got it all figured out? Nah. I take it one corner at a time. One race at a time. And I’m not afraid to admit when I need help. You don’t have to do this alone,” he tells her. "Look, I know the team is depending on you. But they’re not expecting perfection. What they want is someone who’s willing to learn, to fight. And you’ve got that in spades, I can see it. Don’t let one, or even a few, bad sessions make you forget why you’re here. You earned your seat just like everyone else." There’s a beat of silence. The tightness in her chest calms, even if just for a moment. The tension that had been clawing at her all day begins to ease, and she feels a little less alone. “Thanks. I... I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s good to hear someone say that.”

He winks at her. “You’re welcome. But don’t think for a second that I’m not going to be keeping an eye on you. If you need anything—advice, a pep talk, or just someone to listen to you complain about the team—I’m here. Just don’t expect me to go easy on you in the races.” Casey laughs, the first genuine smile she’s shown all day. It feels real, like maybe she can make it through this. “I’ll keep that in mind. And I’ll do my best to keep up with you out there.” He grins back at her, “I expect nothing less.” As he walks off, leaving her to think, Casey stands a little taller. The weight of the world doesn’t lift entirely, but for the first time in a while, the pressure feels more manageable. Maybe she doesn’t have to carry it all on her own. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a way forward—one step, one lap at a time.

The next day, right before qualifying, Max decides he needed to talk to Casey. He’s not great at talking about emotions, but he’s also not one to let things fester. He walked over to her side of the garage and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey. I looked at the data from yesterday. The setup changes you were making—some of them were actually quite good. But you need to trust your instincts more.” Casey nods. “Thanks. I just... I’m still trying to figure it out, you know?” she says quietly. “I get it. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t good enough. You are good enough. You just have to believe it, and the rest will follow,” Max tells her.

“Good afternoon race fans! The sun is blazing over the Hard Rock Stadium as the 2023 Miami Grand Prix qualifying session gets underway. With a weekend that has already seen plenty of surprises, the pressure is on for teams and drivers to nail their final laps around the brand-new layout, featuring long straights and tight corners. After a few practice sessions that revealed just how close the field was, it was clear that the battle for pole position would be fierce. Max Verstappen looked imperious all weekend, while Ferrari’s Charles Leclerc and a few others are poised to make their mark. But there is one name that stands out in the paddock — Casey Winters. The only other American on the grid beside Logan Sargeant and a sim racer turned Formula 1 driver, now racing for Red Bull Racing, with a lot to prove. As the first woman to join Red Bull in F1 history, expectations are high, and all eyes are on her. She hasn’t delivered yet but will she do it here in Miami?”

Casey took a deep breath, tightening and loosening her grip on the steering wheel as she waited for her turn to leave the garage. As the opening minutes of Q1 ticked down, Casey was focused, but her heart was racing. The roar of the engines around her reminded her that this was no longer the practice sessions—this was the real deal. Every driver was aiming for perfection. Max was setting blistering times, his pace untouchable. She’d studied his every move, trying to understand how he could extract so much from the car. She wasn’t there yet, but today was about finding her limits. The tight Miami streets offered little room for error. Every corner required absolute precision, and the slightest misstep could see her slip down the order. She knew that the field was close, and every tenth of a second would count. But as the chequered flag waved at the end of Q1, she’d made it. P12, through to Q2. There was no time to celebrate. Not yet. I just need to keep calm, keep focused. Stay smooth, stay confident. With only the top 10 advancing to Q3, she knew she couldn’t afford to make a mistake. She had to put together the perfect lap. As the team radio crackled to life, Ken’s voice came through, “Casey, good job. Keep it steady, you’re in the fight for Q3. We know you’ve got more in the tank.”

“Copy that,” she responded, her hands gripping the steering wheel just a little tighter. The moment she left the pits, she could feel the difference in the car. The track had evolved, the temperature rising, and with it, the balance of the Red Bull was shifting. It was a delicate balance between attacking the corners and keeping the rear from stepping out. She was pushing hard, but she knew that one wrong move could cost her a spot in Q3. She attacked Turn 1, hard on the brakes but smooth through the apex. The car responded beautifully, a controlled slide at the exit of Turn 3. As she powered down the back straight, she could see the speed on the data screen climbing, but her heart was still thumping in her chest. Max had already set a scorching lap to take pole, and the time sheets were filling up with familiar names: Leclerc, Hamilton, Alonso, and others. She had one final shot to secure her place on the grid. As she lined up for her final lap in Q3, she took a deep breath. “Stay calm, stay smooth,” she whispered to herself. The car felt like an extension of her body now—every shift, every flick of the steering wheel was second nature. She was fully in tune with the Red Bull, and this lap would be her best yet. Through the final sector, she attacked the corners with precision, her eyes fixed on the track ahead. There was no room for mistakes. The chequered flag waved, and as the times flashed up on the screen, there it was: P9. She had done it. The emotion was overwhelming. She couldn’t help but smile to herself, despite the exhaustion in her body. The cheers from her engineer over the radio were the first signs of the pride they’d felt in her achievement. It wasn’t pole, but it was a statement. Now all she needs to do is place in the points during the race tomorrow.

The atmosphere at the track on Sunday is electric. Teams bustling around their garages, finalizing last-minute adjustments, while strategists huddle over their screens, analyzing every detail. As the clock ticks down, the grandstands are a sea of color, with fans waving flags and wearing team merchandise. Opening ceremonies are held, the national anthem is played. Soon enough Casey is being ushered into the car. With moments to go, the tension built. The lights above the track illuminate one by one. It’s just her and the car. Breathe. The crowd roared as the cars launched off the grid, their engines screaming and tires screeching as they hurtled into Turn 1. She held her breath as she fought to maintain her position, weaving through the tight first corners, her heart pounding in her chest. The start was chaotic. A few cars jostled for position, and there was a tense moment when Casey saw a Mercedes slide wide ahead of her. She kept her foot in it, moving up to P8, a quick but cautious gain. The field was packed, and the race was still young. She knew better than to get too overzealous—there were still 50 laps to go. By the end of the first lap, she’d settled into a rhythm, her Red Bull car feeling more responsive than it had in ages. There was a new confidence in her steering, a steadiness in her braking. It was like she was finally beginning to sync with the car, like she and the machine had become one—an extension of her own body.

As she entered the second lap, Ken came over the radio: “Casey, keep your pace, stay steady.” A sense of calm washed over her, but the pressure never let up. The Miami circuit was unforgiving—tight walls, high-speed straights, and challenging braking zones. But she wasn’t thinking about the walls anymore. She wasn’t even thinking about the pressure. She was just driving, focused on each corner, each turn, each gear shift. This was what she’d been training for—what she’d dreamed of since she was a kid. By the 15th lap, Casey was still holding P8, just behind Lando Norris in the McLaren. She could see the gap closing between them as they approached the end of the lap. Lando was struggling with his tires—his car was visibly sliding in the corners, his braking points becoming inconsistent. Casey felt her opportunity slip into view. As they reached the long back straight, she pulled out of the slipstream, inching closer to Norris. Her foot was heavy on the throttle, the roar of her engine filling her ears. She made her move into Turn 11, braking later than Norris, diving down the inside. The gap was tight, but she committed—her car nestled perfectly against the apex. Her heart skipped a beat as she powered through the corner, her Red Bull sliding ever so slightly but under control. Lando Norris had no choice but to back off, leaving her room to accelerate out of the corner and take the position. The adrenaline rush was immense but there was no time to celebrate. The race was far from over, and the cars behind her were just as hungry. Esteban Ocon, who had started just behind her, was closing the gap fast. Her tires were starting to wear, but she wasn’t about to let up. By the time the race hit the halfway point, Casey’s battle for P7 had intensified. Ocon was right behind her, hounding her down every straight, trying to find an opening. She knew that the smallest mistake would cost her this precious position. She gritted her teeth, focusing on the braking zones. No mistakes, no errors. This was her chance to score points. As they approached the tricky Turn 7-8 chicane, Ocon pulled alongside, trying to squeeze through. It was tight, but Casey didn’t flinch—she held her line, forcing Ocon to back out. As they crossed the start/finish line again, she could hear her race engineer’s voice crackling in her ear. “Good job, Casey. Hold position. You’re doing great.” With just a few laps to go, the race began to take on an all-or-nothing feel. Ocon was still right behind her. As the laps ticked down, Casey’s hands began to cramp from the intense focus. Her foot on the throttle was relentless, and every gear change seemed to bring her closer to the finish line. The Red Bull felt alive under her, dancing through the corners as if it understood the stakes. As she crossed the line, her car was still in P7. She had done it—Casey Winters, the sim racer turned F1 rookie, had just secured her first-ever points finish in her debut season. P7 in the Miami Grand Prix. The radio crackled to life: “Casey, fantastic job. P7! First points in F1. You earned that one.” She felt a mix of exhaustion and elation flood her as she did her in lap. She’d done it. She’d earned it. After all the doubt, being unable to progress after karting, all the years had been spent racing in virtual worlds, today, she had proven to herself—and to everyone else—that she belonged here. This wasn’t luck. This was skill. Her heart was racing, but this time it wasn’t from fear or doubt—it was from pure joy.

“That's the thing about being a wild card in Formula 1—you can either taking an unknown chance that blows up spectacularly or a surprise success. Casey Winters is on track to be the latter. P7 today is an incredible result for any rookie, but for someone with her background, it’s nothing short of impressive.”

Taglist:

@dreadity

#starset writes #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #max verstappen #fernando alonso #oc! casey winters #f1 #driver x driver oc!

27 notes · View notes

darkmaga-returns · 15 days ago

Text

President Donald Trump announced visa suspensions affecting 19 countries due to national security concerns and inadequate vetting capabilities, effective June 9.

Full suspensions apply to 12 countries (e.g., Afghanistan, Iran, Somalia), while partial restrictions target specific visa categories for 7 others (e.g., Cuba, Venezuela).

The White House cited high visa overstay rates, weak identity verification, terrorism links and governance instability, based on DHS overstay data and inter-agency input.

Green card holders, existing visa holders (pre-June 9), asylum seekers, diplomats and UN/NATO personnel are exempt from the suspensions.

The 90-day suspension period is intended to improve screening protocols and information-sharing, aiming to reduce security and immigration-related risks.

13 notes · View notes

lalune9x · 9 months ago

Text

SCTIR Translation - Chapter 464: I'm a Fan! (4)

[NOVEL SPOILERS] Story context: Han Gyeol is the name of the pink fairy dragon previously called 'Changeling' that Han Yoojin, uh, gave birth to. Yoojin named him in an earlier chapter after getting input from the other dad slash magical essence donor(?).

"Also, you barely know her. I’m not against you dating outright." "Ajussi, that’s one hundred percent a lie,” Yerim cut in.

Chapter translation under the cut.

---

“I’m telling you, I’ll get rejected,” I said. I was organizing the details of the monsters I had cared for on my laptop.

Han Gyeol, who was sitting beside the laptop and glaring at Sung Hyunje, grumbled, ‘Why would Dad get rejected?’ Then he said more loudly:

— If Dad likes someone, then I’ll like them too.

“That’s sweet of you, Gyeol-ah. But you know, Dad actually sort of likes Sung Hyunje, too.”

— Except for that one. Except the ones dangerous to Dad.

It seemed like Han Gyeol had developed a particular dislike for Sung Hyunje after I’d been threatened by him a few times. There was that time during the dungeon break, and when he’d tried to mess with me on the cruise.

“So, is this going to be your office, Director Han?” Moon Hyuna asked, looking around the room. We were in one of the empty rooms on the first floor of the rearing facility.

“They told me I needed a director’s office. Up until now, I’ve just been working from home, but now that I have employees, I figured it’s time to do things properly.”

It was about time I had a more regular work schedule. I had been living too erratically. For now, I had just set up a desk, table, and sofa. I didn’t even have a nameplate yet. Come to think of it, I should get a new business card too.

“Anyway, I’m just going to confess and be done with it.”

“How’s that going to work? What if Chloe says okay?”

“Do you really think that’s likely? I mean assuming she has no ulterior motives,” I replied.

Moon Hyuna scratched the back of her head. “You are cute, Hyung-nim, but...” She plopped down onto the sofa and continued, “If you’re asking if Chloe would find you attractive, I’m honestly not sure I can give a positive answer.”

“Of course not. After all, I’m pretty much a stranger to her. It would be hard to claim love at first sight, too. No matter what people say about first impressions, looks matter, and in that department, I’m at a disadvantage.”

As if it weren’t hard enough being on my own, I had to contend with Yoohyun, Sung Hyunje, and even Song Taewon as my companions. Who would even notice my face? Getting rejected was the most likely outcome, assuming there were no ulterior motives involved.

“You’re speaking very rationally. Weren’t you all flustered yesterday? Did your feelings cool off overnight?”

“I still like Chloe-ssi. I’d like to keep liking her, if possible.”

Chloe didn’t know it, but her programs had been a source of comfort to me during some tough times. I wasn’t the only one she’d helped. While those moments had been erased due to my regression, I still remembered them clearly.

“…You’re acting a bit suspicious.” Hyuna-ssi seemed to have caught on that my attitude wasn’t normal.

“In support of Han Yoojin-gun’s first love.” Sung Hyunje approached and perched on the desk, then handed me a USB drive. Gyeol bared his teeth as if he would chomp on Sung Hyunje’s hand at any moment. Calm down, Gyeol-ah.

“It’s not my first love. I already got rejected by my first love a long time ago,” I said.

I plugged the USB into my laptop. It contained detailed information on Chloe Alger. “You got that ready fast.”

I said I would contact him in a few days, but he had brought the information in just one day. The data included not only personal details but also recent activities in detail. After reading through it, I let out a deep sigh. There wasn’t anything particularly suspicious in the data itself. However…

‘One centimeter.’

She was 1 cm taller than she had been before my regression. It was a small difference, but the problem was that Chloe at this point should be at a lower level than the Chloe I knew. Taking that into account, the difference might be closer to 2 cm.

‘...It’s likely that her rank increased, after all.’

Or she might have acquired a skill that affected her body. That was also possible. Ranks can go up. Skills can be gained. After all, I had changed, and so had the people around me. It wasn’t unreasonable to think others could change too.

But change wasn’t that easy. If I didn't have my memories, if my skills remained the same and I had simply regressed—how much would I have changed compared to before the regression? It's never easy to change without external interference.

“Han Yoojin-gun,” Sung Hyunje said, leaning forward. “It seems some information differs from what you remember.”

“…Yes.”

"Why are you two having a conversation only you understand," Moon Hyuna grumbled, annoyed at being left out.

Explaining it fully would mean bringing up my life before the regression. I rubbed my face as if washing it and pushed my hair back.

“It’s not certain,” I said, feeling a weight in my chest. “But there’s a possibility that Hunter Chloe is connected to Park Hayul or to the person who recently carried out the attack on the Association.”

“…Chloe is?” Moon Hyuna looked surprised.

“Yes. That's why, to confirm, I need to be rejected by her."

Moon Hyuna loosely crossed her arms. Gyeol used his tail to slap away Sung Hyunje’s hand, which had been reaching towards me.

“Don’t be too disappointed. People aren’t always what they seem,” Sung Hyunje consoled me.

“We don’t know for certain yet.”

“Hold on, Hyung-nim. So you pretended to like Chloe?”

“…I’m not pretending. I do like her, not romantically but as a person. I’m genuinely a fan."

“Yeah, you didn’t seem like you were acting. But confessing just to see if there’s something fishy… isn’t that a strange approach?"

"Everyone already thinks I have a crush on Chloe-ssi, so I’m playing along with the situation."

I couldn’t explain about the keyword. If the keyword failed to work, it would mean she was connected to Park Hayul. If it worked but she started making moves to get closer to me or try something else, then she’d likely be linked to the Pious. If neither happened, then maybe I could relax a little. But I’d still need to ask her about her rank.

“I don’t think Chloe-ssi is the kind of person who would date me just for my status. Don’t you agree?"

"From what I know, yeah. Chloe is, how should I put it, a bit like Director Song."

“Like Director Song?”

“I told you that she’s unusual. She’s not as extreme in suppressing herself, but for a high-ranking hunter, she cares a lot about the public good. She also dislikes hunters who abuse their power.”

“…She sounds like a good person.”

“Well, there’s still a lot of discrimination where she’s from, right? Even though it’s lessened over time, you still hear things like, ‘America’s heroes are always white.’"

Though not all, most of the famous and popular hunters in the U.S. were indeed white. There had been discussions about how similarly skilled or even weaker hunters received preferential treatment if they were white.

“Her ethics are fairly strict, so it’s hard to imagine her being involved with the people who kidnapped you and shot at you, Director Han. Still, as Sung Hyunje said, people aren’t always what they seem. Some folks are completely different on the inside.”

"The Breaker Guild Leader got tricked once, too. That’s why—"

“Shut your mouth, Sung Hyunje, before I stitch it closed,” Moon Hyuna growled, her brow furrowing. Hyuna-ssi had also been deceived at some point?

“It could just be my misunderstanding,” I said.

“Well anyway, Hyung-nim, if you’re rejected cleanly, then she probably doesn’t have any ulterior motives. Right?”

“Basically, yes. If she were targeting me, it’d be an opportunity she wouldn’t want to pass up."

Even though we were technically in a ceasefire with the Pious, both sides were allowed to maintain contact. There was no reason for them to refuse an opportunity to get closer to me.

"She might suspect it's a trap, but I think my behavior has been quite natural."

"It was good enough to fool me, so I’d say that’s a safe bet,” Hyuna said.

"I’m telling you, it’s real."

Besides, given how loudly I’d been declaring my supposed feelings and confessing, it’d be hard for anyone to believe this was all staged. And all I’d done was mention the idea of confessing.

"It seems the rumors have spread quite a bit.”

“Yeah, it’s all over our guild,” Hyuna replied.

“Sooyoung said she wants to catch the bouquet,” Sung Hyunje chimed in.

“Ah, Liette mentioned she might try to make a move before it’s too late, so be careful. Lock your doors at night.”

What nonsense was that? Does that mean Liette wouldn't touch someone who has a partner? I thought she wouldn't care about things like that, so it was a bit surprising.

“…I really feel bad for Chloe-ssi, though. If this turns out to be a misunderstanding, I’ll need to apologize properly."

"You said your behavior wasn't fake, right? Besides, you’re F-rank and younger than her, so it’s not a big deal. If Chloe were a low-rank hunter or your genders were reversed, I’d tell you to keep quiet, but this is just a harmless incident.”

Moon Hyuna waved her hand dismissively, assuring me that this situation would blow over as a minor incident. She even suggested Chloe might find it amusing.

“Please keep this a secret from others. From Yoohyun and Yerim, of course, but also from Director Song,” I requested.

If Yoohyun and Yerim found out, they’d give away the ruse immediately. And Director Song wasn’t great at acting either.

“Don’t worry. So, which hotel? Should I call in an orchestra?” Moon Hyuna was still excited, insisting that a confession was still a confession, after all.

“Fine, fine. Chloe-ssi probably knows what you’re like, Hyuna-ssi, so do as you please. I’ll just go along with the two of you and let you push me into confessing."

There was something else I hesitated to mention but felt I should, just in case.

“It seems Chloe-ssi’s stats are higher than what’s publicly known. She might actually be S-rank, not A-rank.”

“What?” Moon Hyuna’s eyes widened in surprise. It seemed even Sung Hyunje hadn’t anticipated that.

"The current Chloe Alger is about 2cm taller than the A-rank Chloe Alger."

"So that's why you were sure after seeing the data,” Sung Hyunje remarked.

“What are you two talking about?”

“The Chloe Alger I knew was 1 cm shorter, even five years from now.”

“…Five years from now?”

“I’m actually from five years in the future.”

“What Han Yoojin-gun says is true,” Sung Hyunje backed me up.

Moon Hyuna leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, staring at us. There was a moment of silence.

“…Well, fine. I guess a lot of strange things have happened since the dungeons appeared, so why not. We’ve been to other worlds, so time travel doesn’t seem too far-fetched. The bottom line is that you know what’ll happen over the next five years?”

“It’s changed a lot. Originally, I couldn't raise monsters. There was no rearing facility. S-rank mounts didn’t exist even five years later.”

"Things are much better then! That's all that matters." Moon Hyuna sat up and stretched her back, before sinking deep into the sofa. “Got any advice for me?”

“Not really. Just be cautious with the media, I guess? You can imagine why I would have known about that incident,” I said.

“Got it.”

She didn’t pry for more details. Just like in Achates, Hyuna-ssi lived in the present. She focused on the here and now, without lingering on a future that had disappeared. Even after the Breaker Guild collapsed prior to my regression, she would have continued on her own path. And that would be the same in this present.

“So, Chloe changed a lot physically from A-rank to S-rank, which is suspicious. Can those guys turn A-ranks into S-ranks? What about making S-ranks into SS-ranks?” Hyuna asked.

“That would be difficult. I did help Hunter Kim Sunghan grow into an S-rank, but that was different.”

“Oh, right, you did.”

“I only managed it because I figured out his growth conditions, but it still wasn’t easy. The requirements were strict.”

I also shared the exact date I had regressed. Moon Hyuna cheerfully left first, saying she’d prepare everything nicely. Gyeol glared at Sung Hyunje, as if urging him to leave quickly too.

"Will you send everyone away when you confess?" Sung Hyunje asked.

“Yes. The skill on me hasn’t lifted yet, so I’ll deactivate my Fear Resistance just in case. That should also make things more convincing.”

If Chloe were connected to Park Hayul, she might try to control me. Confessing to an S-rank I supposedly liked without Fear Resistance… it was going to look pretty pathetic. Honestly, it would be more surprising if she didn’t reject me. Just thinking about it made me a little sad. Honestly, it’s not like I had no desire for a normal relationship.

“Even if, by some miracle, she says yes, I’d still turn her down.”

Yerim, who had been supportive, told me to brush it off and stay strong in advance.

Yoohyun, however, still didn’t seem to believe I could be rejected. Sure, maybe on paper my qualifications were appealing…

"You know my situation well, but you’re acting like this?" I asked.

“…Yeah.”

"Didn't you say before that you'd step aside if I got married?"

“Really? Did Han Yoohyun really say that?” Yerim asked, looking between Yoohyun and me in disbelief.

“At the time, I thought it would be fine as long as Hyung was happy.”

"And now you don’t want to do that?"

“…No, I don’t,” Yoohyun shook his head apologetically. It was better for him to admit it than forcing himself to accept it. "Also, you barely know her. I’m not against you dating outright."

"Ajussi, that’s one hundred percent a lie,” Yerim cut in.

"I mean, if she were trustworthy, I’d be okay with it."

“Is there even anyone like that? By your standards, the only one who could pass is probably Peace,” Yerim pointed out.

“Yeah, Peace would be fine.”

Yerim and I both stared at Yoohyun. Oh… he seemed serious.

“Wow… Han Yoohyun," Yerim said slowly.

“Yoohyun-ah, at least consider the fact that Peace is a different species.”

Of course, I trusted Peace too, especially since I’d raised him myself.

“At least Peace would never hurt you, Hyung.”

“Right, right.”

As we talked, the car arrived at the hotel. Even though I was expecting to be rejected, I couldn’t help but feel a little nervous.

#sctir #the s classes that i raised #s classes that i raised #my s class hunters #내가 키운 s급들 #novel translation #han gyeol