#towards data science

[unnonexistence]

i started doing climate data transcription on Zooniverse today & it's nice. i feel a certain kinship with these 1950s weather observatory scientists who were trying to use up their stack of preprinted-for-the-1940s observation sheets & had to keep crossing out the "4" in the year field. they were doing it until at least 1952

[fisheito]

OH HO!

also assigned anxiety at nu🦀

[hug-your-face]

Thank you, @ms-demeanor.

Friends, I think we need to talk about Covid.

I want to get a few caveats out there before I start:

I am aware that there are people who need to exercise extreme caution about Covid; I live with someone who has two solid organ transplants and who is at the most immune compromised level of immune compromised. *I* have to be extremely cautious about covid.

Masking does prevent a certain level of transmission, and people who think they may have covid should mask and people who are concerned that they may be at high risk for covid should mask.

You should be vaccinated and boosted with the most recent vaccines that are available to you; covid is highly transmissible and very serious, you do not want to get covid and if you do get covid you don't want it to be severe and if you do get covid you don't want to give someone else covid and up-to-date vaccinations are the best way to reduce transmission and help to prevent severe cases of Covid.

We should be testing before going to any gatherings, and informing people if we test positive after gatherings, and testing if we suspect we have been exposed.

It is bullshit that there aren't good protections for workers who have covid; you should not be expected to go to work when you are testing positive

It is bullshit that people who are testing positive are not isolating for other reasons; if you have Covid you should not be going out and exposing other people to it even if you are experiencing mild symptoms or no symptoms.

We do need better ventilation systems for many kinds of spaces. Schools need better ventilation, restaurants need better ventilation, doctor's offices and hospitals and office buildings need better ventilation and better ventilation can reduce covid transmission.

I want to make it clear that Covid is real and there are real steps that individuals and systems can take to prevent transmission, and that there are systems that are exerting pressures that needlessly expose people to covid (the fact that you can lose your job if you don't come in when you're testing positive, mainly; also the fact that covid rapid tests should be ubiquitous and cheap/free and are not).

All of that being said: I'm seeing some posts circulating about how we're at an extremely high level of transmission and the REAL pandemic is being hidden from us and, friends, I'm pretty sure that is just incorrect and we're spreading misinformation.

I'm thinking of this video in particular, in which the claim is made that "your mystery illness is covid" in spite of negative tests. The guy in the video says that there's nothing else that millions of people could be getting a day, and that he predicted this because a wastewater spike in December meant that there was a huge spike in cases.

I've also seen people saying that deaths are where they were in 2021-2022, and that we're still at "a 9/11 a week" of excess deaths and friends, I'm not seeing great evidence for any of these claims.

I know that we (in the US, which is where the numbers I'm going to be citing are from) feel abandoned by the CDC and the fact that tracking cut off in May of 2023. But that only cut off for the federal tracking.

I live in LA county and LA county sure as shit is still tracking Covid.

If you want a clearer picture, you can see the daily case count over time compared to the daily death count:

Okay, you might say, but that's just LA.

Alright, so here's Detroit:

Right, but maybe that's CDC data and you don't trust the CDC at this point.

Okay, here's fatalities in New York tracked through New York's state data collection:

It's harder to toggle around the site for South Dakota, but you can compare their cases and hospitalizations and deaths for early 2022

To cases and hospitalizations and deaths from early 2024

And see that there's really no comparison.

Okay, you might say, but people are testing less. If they're testing less of course we're not seeing spikes, and they're testing less because fewer tests are available.

Alright, people are definitely testing less than they were in 2021 and 2022. Hospitalization for Covid is probably the most clear metric because you know those people have covid for sure, the couldn't not test for it.

Here are hospitalizations over time for LA:

Here are hospitalizations over time for New York:

As vaccination rates have gone up, cases, deaths, and hospitalizations have gone down. It IS clear that there are case spikes in the winter, when it is cold and people are indoors in poorly ventilated spaces and people are more susceptible to respiratory infections as a result of cold air weakening the protection offered by our mucous membranes, and that is something that we will have to take precautions about for the forseeable future, just as we should have always been taking similar precautions during flu season.

So I want to go point-by-point through some of the arguments made in that video because I'm seeing a bunch of people talking about how "THEY" don't want you to know about the virus surge and buds that is just straight up conspiracism.

So okay, first off, most of what that video is based on is spikes in wastewater data, not spikes in cases. This is because people don't trust CDC data on cases, but I'd say to maybe check out your regional data on cases. I don't actually trust the CDC that much, but I know people who do tracking of hospitalizations in LA county, I trust them a lot more. Wastewater data does correlate with increases in cases, but this "second largest spike of the entire pandemic" thing is misleading; wastewater reporting is pretty highly variable and you can't just accept that a large spike in covid in wastewater means that we're in just as bad a place in the pandemic as we were in 2022. We simply have not seen the surge of hospitalizations and deaths that we would expect to see in the weeks following that spike in wastewater data if wastewater data was reflective of community transmission.

The next claim is that "there is nothing else that is infecting millions of people a day" and covid isn't doing that either. The highest daily case rates were in January of 2021 and they were in the 865k a day range, which is ridiculously high but isn't millions of cases a day.

But what we can see is that when people are tested by their doctors for Covid, RSV, and the Flu, more tests are coming back positive for the Flu. Covid causes more hospitalizations than the other two illnesses, but to be honest what the people in the video are describing - lightheadedness, dizziness, exhaustion - just sound like pretty standard symptoms of everything from covid to the cold to allergies. There are lots of things your mystery illness could be.

The video goes on to talk about the fact that people aren't testing, and why their tests may be coming back negative and I'd like to point out that the same things are all true of Flu or RSV tests. People might be getting tested too early or too late; getting a negative test for the flu isn't a good reason to assume you've got covid, getting a negative test for covid isn't a good reason to assume you've got the flu, and testing for viruses as a whole is imperfect. There are hundreds of viruses that could be the common cold; there are multiple viruses that can cause bronchitis; there are multiple viruses that can cause pneumonia, and you're not going to test for all of these things the moment you start feeling sick.

He then recommends testing for multiple days if you have symptoms and haven't had a positive test (fine) and talks about the location of the tests (less fine). Don't use your rapid tests to swab your throat or cheek unless it specifically says that they are designed to do so. Test based on the instructions in the packet.

He points out that the tests probably still pick up on the virus because they're not testing for the spike protein, they're testing for the RNA (good info!)

The video then discusses something that I think is really key to this paranoia about the "mystery illnesses" - he talks about how covid changes and weakens your immune system (a statement that should come with many caveats about severity and vulnerability and that we are still researching that) and then says that it makes you more susceptible to strep or mono and that "things that used to clear in a day or two now hit you really hard."

And that's where I think this anxiety is coming from.

Strep throat lasts anywhere from three days to a week. A cold takes about a week to clear. The flu lasts about a week and can knock you on your ass with exhaustion for weeks depending on how bad you get it. Did you get a cough with your cold? Expect that to take anywhere from three to eight weeks to clear up.

I think that people are thinking "i got a bad virus and felt really sick for a week and haven't gotten my energy back" but that just sounds like a bad cold. That sounds like a potent allergy attack. That doesn't even sound like a bad flu (I got a bad flu in 2009 and thought i was going to straight-up die I had a fever of 103+ for three days and felt like shit for three days on either side of that and took six weeks to feel more like myself again).

Getting sick sucks. It really, really sucks. But if you're getting sick and you're testing for covid and it's coming back negative after you tested a few times, it's almost certainly not covid.

The video then says "until someone provides evidence that it's not covid, it should be assumed to be covid because we have record levels of covid it's that simple" but that's not simple. We don't have record levels of covid and he hasn't proved it. We have record high levels of wastewater reports of covid, which correlates with covid cases but the spike in wastewater noted in december didn't see a spike with a corresponding magnitude of cases in terms of either hospitalizations or deaths, which is what we'd have seen if we had actual record numbers of covid.

He says that if you want to ignore this, you'll get sick with covid, and that about 30-40% of the US just got sick with covid in the last four months (which is a RIDICULOUSLY unevidenced claim).

He says that we need to create a new normal that takes covid into account, which means masking more often and testing more often and making choices about risk-avoidant behaviors.

Now, I don't disagree with that last statement, but he prefaces the statement with "it doesn't necessarily mean lockdown" and that's where I think the alarmism and paranoia is really visible here. We are so, so far away from "lockdown" type levels that it's absurd to discuss lockdown here.

What I'm seeing right now is people who are chronically ill, people who are immune compromised, and people who are experiencing long covid (which may not be distinct from other post-viral syndromes from severe cases of flu, etc, but which may be more severe or more notable because of the prevalence of covid) are talking about feeling abandoned and attacked and left behind by society because covid is still out there, and still at extremely high levels.

I am seeing people who feel abandoned and attacked because the lgbtq+ events they are attending don't require masking. I am seeing people who are claiming that it is eugenicist that their schools don't have a negative test policy anymore.

And this comes together into two really disconcerting trends that I've been observing online for a while.

The claim that the pandemic is still as bad as it's ever been and in fact may be worse but we can't know that because "they" (the CDC, the government, capitalist institutions that want you back in the office, the university industrial complex that wants your dorm room dollars) are covering up the numbers and

Significant grievance at the fact that people are acting like number one is not true and are putting you at risk either out of thoughtlessness (because they don't realize they're putting you at risk) or malice (because they don't care if the sick die).

And those things are a recipe for disaster.

I think I've pretty robustly addressed point one; I don't think that there's good evidence that there's a secretly awful surge of covid that nobody is talking about. I think that there are some people who are being alarmist about covid who are basing all of their concern on wastewater numbers that have not held up as the harbinger of a massive wave of infections.

So let's talk about point number two and JK Rowling.

Barnes and Noble is not attacking you when it puts up a Hogwarts Castle display in the lobby. Your favorite youtuber isn't trying to hurt you when they offhandedly mention Harry Potter.

If you let every mention of Harry Potter or every person who enjoys that media franchise wound you, you are going to spend a lot of your time wounded.

People are not liking Harry Potter at you.

Okay.

People are also not not wearing masks at you.

You may be part of a minority group that experiences the potential for outsized harm as a result of majority groups engaging in perfectly reasonable behaviors.

There are kind, well-meaning, sensible people who go out every day and do something that may cause you harm and it's not because they want to hurt you or they don't care about whether you live or die, it is because they are making their own risk assessments based on their own lives and making the very reasonable assumption that people who are more concerned about covid than they are will take precautions to keep themselves safe.

We are not at a place in the pandemic where it is sensible to expect people with no symptoms of illness to mask in public as a matter of course or to present evidence of a recent negative test when entering a public building in their day-to-day life.

I think now is a really good time to sit down and ask yourself how you expect things to be with covid as an endemic part of our viral ecosystem. I think now is a good time to ask yourself what risk realistically looks like for you and for people who are unlike you. I think now is a good time to consider what would feel "safe" for you and how you could accomplish feeling safe as you navigate the world.

I'm probably going to continue masking in most indoor spaces for years. Maybe forever. There are accommodations that SHOULD be afforded to people who have to take more precautions than others (remote learning, remote visits, remote work, etc.), and we should demand those kinds of accommodations.

But it is going to poison you from the inside out if you are perpetually angry that people who don't have the same medical limitations as you are happy that they get to go shopping with their faces uncovered.

So now I want to talk to you about my father in law.

My father in law had a bone marrow transplant in 2015. That's the most immune compromised you can get without having your organs swapped out.

The care sheet for him after the transplant was a little overwhelming. The list of foods he couldn't eat was intimidating and the limitations on where he could go was depressing. It cautioned against going to large events, it recommended outdoor gatherings where possible but only if he could avoid sunlight and was somewhere with no history of valley fever. It said that he should wear masks indoors any time he was someplace with poor ventilation and that he should avoid contact with anyone who had an illness of any kind, taking special note to avoid children and anyone recently vaccinated for measles.

It was, in short, pretty much what someone immune compromised would need to do to try to avoid a viral infection. Sensible. Reasonable. Wash your hands and social distance; wear masks in sensitive contexts and don't spend time in enclosed places with people who have a communicable illness.

This is what life was always going to be like for people who are severely immune compromised, and it was always going to be incumbent upon the person with the illness to figure out how to operate in a society that is not built with them in mind.

It is not the job of every parent I encounter to tell me whether their child has been vaccinated against measles or chicken pox in the last three months. That isn't something that people need to do as part of their everyday life. However it IS my responsibility to check with the parents I'm hanging out with whether their children have been vaccinated against measles or chicken pox in the last three months so I know if it's safe for my immune compromised spouse to be around them.

If you want an environment in which you feel safe from covid, at this point in the pandemic (when the virus is endemic and not spreading rapidly as far as we can see from case counts) it is your responsibility to take the steps necessary to make you feel safe. Some of those steps will involve advocating for safety improvements in public spaces (again, indoor ventilation needs to be better and I'm personally pretty extreme about vaccination requirements; these are things we should be discussing in our school board meetings and at our workplaces), some of those steps will involve advocating for worker protections, guaranteed sick time, and the right to healthcare. But some of the things you're going to need to do to feel safe are going to come down to you.

If you are concerned about communicable diseases you have to be realistic about the fact that our society doesn't go out of its way to prevent communicable diseases - norovirus among food service workers pre-pandemic is pretty clear evidence of that. You are going to have to be proactive about your safety rather than expecting the world to act like Covid is at 2021-2022 levels when it is measurably not.

[classroomlearning]

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[curlicuecal]

playing science telephone

Hi folks. Let's play a fun game today called "unravelling bad science communication back to its source."

Journey with me.

Saw a comment going around on a tumblr thread that "sometimes the life expectancy of autism is cited in the 30s"

That number seemed..... strange. The commenter DID go on to say that that was "situational on people being awful and not… anything autism actually does", but you know what? Still a strange number. I feel compelled to fact check.

Quick Google "autism life expectancy" pulls up quite a few websites bandying around the number 39. Which is ~technically~ within the 30s, but already higher than the tumblr factoid would suggest. But, guess what. This number still sounds strange to me.

Most of the websites presenting this factoid present themselves as official autism resources and organizations (for parents, etc), and most of them vaguely wave towards "studies."

Ex: "Above And Beyond Therapy" has a whole article on "Does Autism Affect Life Expectancy" and states:

The link implies that it will take you to the "research studies" being referenced, but it in fact takes you to another random autism resource group called.... Songbird Care?

And on that website we find the factoid again:

Ooh, look. Now they've added the word "some". The average lifespan for SOME autistic people. Which the next group erased from the fact. The message shifts further.

And we have slightly more information about the study! (Which has also shifted from "studies" to a singular "study"). And we have another link!

Wonderfully, this link actually takes us to the actual peer-reviewed 2020 study being discussed. [x]

And here, just by reading the abstract, we find the most important information of all.

This study followed a cohort of adolescent and adult autistic people across a 20 year time period. Within that time period, 6.4% of the cohort died. Within that 6.4%, the average age of death was 39 years.

So this number is VERY MUCH not the average age of death for autistic people, or even the average age of death for the cohort of autistic people in that study. It is the average age of death IF you died young and within the 20 year period of the study (n=26), and also we don't even know the average starting age of participants without digging into earlier papers, except that it was 10 or older. (If you're curious, the researchers in the study suggested reduced self-sufficiency to be among the biggest risk factors for the early mortality group.)

But the number in the study has been removed from it's context, gradually modified and spread around the web, and modified some more, until it is pretty much a nonsense number that everyone is citing from everyone else.

There ARE two other numbers that pop up semi-frequently:

One cites the life expectancy at 58. I will leave finding the context for that number as an exercise for the audience, since none of the places I saw it gave a direct citation for where they were getting it.

And then, probably the best and most relevant number floating around out there (and the least frequently cited) draws from a 2023 study of over 17,000 UK people with an autism diagnosis, across 30 years. [x] This study estimated life expectancies between 70 and 77 years, varying with sex and presence/absence of a learning disability. (As compared to the UK 80-83 average for the population as a whole.)

This is a set of numbers that makes way more sense and is backed by way better data, but isn't quite as snappy a soundbite to pass around the internet. I'm gonna pass it around anyway, because I feel bad about how many scared internet people I stumbled across while doing this search.

People on quora like "I'm autistic, can I live past 38"-- honey, YES. omg.

---

tl;dr, when someone gives you a number out of context, consider that the context is probably important

also, make an amateur fact checker's life easier and CITE YOUR SOURCES

[geology-side-of-tumbler]

Holy shit holy shit holy Schist!!!!!

A hydrothermal explosion happened Yellowstone!! And I’m alive to see it! I wish I was there.

From USGS Facebook:

A small hydrothermal explosion occurred in Yellowstone National Park today (July 23, 2024) around 10:00 AM MST in the Biscuit Basin thermal area, about 2.1 miles (3.5 km) northwest of Old Faithful. Numerous videos of the event were recorded by visitors. The boardwalk was damaged, but there were no reports of injury. The explosion appears to have originated near Black Diamond Pool.

Biscuit Basin, including the parking lot and boardwalks, are temporary closed for visitor safety. The Grand Loop road remains open. Yellowstone National Park geologists are investigating the event.

Hydrothermal explosions occur when water suddenly flashes to steam underground, and they are relatively common in Yellowstone. For example, Porkchop Geyser, in Norris Geyser Basin, experienced an explosion in 1989, and a small event in Norris Geyser Basin was recorded by monitoring equipment on April 15, 2024. An explosion similar to that of today also occurred in Biscuit Basin on May 17, 2009.

More information about hydrothermal explosions is available at https://www.usgs.gov/observatories/yvo/news/hydrothermal-explosions-yellowstone-national-park.

Monitoring data show no changes in the Yellowstone region. Today’s explosion does not reflect activity within volcanic system, which remains at normal background levels of activity. Hydrothermal explosions like that of today are not a sign of impending volcanic eruptions, and they are not caused by magma rising towards the surface.

Additional information will be provided as it becomes available.

The Yellowstone Volcano Observatory (YVO) provides long-term monitoring of volcanic and earthquake activity in the Yellowstone National Park region. Yellowstone is the site of the largest and most diverse collection of natural thermal features in the world and the first National Park. YVO is one of the five USGS Volcano Observatories that monitor volcanoes within the United States for science and public safety.

YVO Member agencies: USGS, Yellowstone National Park, University of Utah, University of Wyoming, Montana State University, UNAVCO, Inc., Wyoming State Geological Survey, Montana Bureau of Mines and Geology, Idaho Geological Survey

Image courtesy of Vlada March.

[vlruso]

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[motorsportbarbie13]

A Package Deal

In which Lando befriends a single mom without even realizing it.

Warnings: single mom. talk of parental death (no death featured on page), lando being a judgey jerk at first, kinda? Pairing: Lando Norris x SingleMom!Reader Word Count: 5.4k words

Master List

yourusername (private) posted

109 likes liked by yourdad, BFFsarah, McLaren, and others yourusername Work holiday party with my mini me! yourdad my two favorite girls! >>>yourusername thanks dad! <3

The fairy lights that stretched back and forth across the ceiling of the McLaren Technology Center sparkle down at you, a soft glow illuminating the spacious front lobby. Half a dozen 12 foot Christmas trees dot the cavernous room and tables decorated with rich red, green, and silver accents create intimate seating areas throughout. The only things indicating that the offices were home to McLaren's Formula 1 team were the seven or so F1 cars from past and present, all put on display for tonight's party.

The events team had certainly outdone themselves this year, that was for sure. If there was anything the McLaren events team went hard for every single time, it was the MTC's annual family holiday party. This year though, the entire team had extra reason to celebrate: earlier in the month, the team had brought home the Constructor's Championship for the first time in years.

"Momma, where's Aunt Sarah?" Your six year old daughter Stella asks softly, her little hand tucked securely in yours as she looks around, eyes wide in awe at all the decorations.

"I don't know, munchkin." You reply, grinning down at her. "Do you want to see if we can find her?"

Your best friend Sarah was surely already here as she was one of the heads of the events team. She'd been planning this party for months now, the added pressure from the championship win had nearly driven her mad. A quick text is answered even quicker and you lead Stella towards the massive ballroom that sits on the opposite side of the sleek modern building.

As you walk down the hall, the heels of your stilettos clicking softly, you're surprised to be hit with a wave of nostalgia. You'd been working for McLaren for almost two years now, after Sarah had given the head of product development your resume when you graduated uni with a degree in computer science and data analytics. Marshall, the man who ran the department, had offered you a job as a data analyst on the spot when you came into interview the following week. It had all felt like divine intervention, going from getting pregnant so young and having no other choice but to navigate parenthood alone to finding yourself employed within weeks of graduating. McLaren truly felt like your second home now.

"There's my Stelly Belly!" Sarah cries when she sees Stella and you walking towards her. Without a second thought, your daughter drops your hand and flings herself into the waiting arms of your best friend, one of the few adults the little girl trusts enough to open up to.

"Don't you look pretty tonight?" Sarah coos, nuzzling her head into Stella neck, eliciting a squeal and a cascade of giggles from your little girl. "And your mama looks stunning too!"

Rolling your eyes, you smooth down the front of the red satin dress you'd bought last week. "Are you sure it's not too much?"

Your brows knit together in uncertainty. Ever since having Stella at 19, your life had revolved around the little girl. Everything you did and every choice you made was made because of her and with her best interest in mind. Going to university when she was a newborn had been for her benefit and the time spent away from her while you studied and attended classes were paying off now with your secure job and hefty paycheck. But you weren't used to calling attention to yourself, totally content with working behind a computer screen in your quiet office tucked in the back of the MTC. You came to work, socialized very little, and went home to your daughter. This kind of event was very much out of your comfort zone.

"Stop that." Sarah scolds as she sets Stella down. "You look so good you're going have the mechanics breaking their necks all night long."

"Okay, that's enough." You huff.

"Momma, Sarah says there's holiday crafts over there!" Stella points vaguely towards the other side of the room. "Can we go? Please?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Let's go."

"I'll take her!" Sarah volunteers, capturing Stella's little hand in hers before giving you a look. "Go get a drink or something. Have some fun. Stelly Belly and I will go make all the crafts!"

You watch after your best friend and the other half of your heart as they scamper away, Stella's red velvet dress fluttering behind her. Somewhere deep in the pit of your stomach, a painful clenching feeling takes root. For the past six years, your entire universe has revolved around that little blonde headed girl. Even now, though you spent more time apart from Stella than you cared for because of school for her and work for you, whenever she was out of sight it felt like a bit of you was missing.

Once you see her settle at the table right next to Sarah and begin coloring something in front of her, you turn away and wander towards the open bar. If there was one thing McLaren did right at these kinds of parties, it was provide top tier food and drinks for the employees.

You order a glass of what smells like the most heavenly mulled wine you've ever encountered and find a spot away from the crowd, leaning against a pillar in the shadows of the room. You weren't used to being around so many people and while you were glad Stella seemed to be enjoying herself, you could feel your social battery already draining.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite McLaren employee." A smooth voice interrupts your anxious thoughts.

You blush into your glass of wine, knowing who it was sneaking up behind you before you even turned around. "I'm telling Oscar you said that."

Lando slips in beside you, caramel colored cashmere jumper brushing against your bare arm. "You wouldn't dare." He says, bumping your shoulder gently. You can hear the smile in his voice without even looking.

When you say you don't socialize much at work, there is always going to be one exception to that rule: Lando Norris. He had wandered into your office one day about six months ago looking for the legal department of all places. Lando had sheepishly admitted he may have accidentally signed a contract to be the spokesman for a bank in Singapore while drunk on holiday and needed to see what how mad everyone was going to be. You then had to admit you were, in fact, just a software engineer and not a solicitor and he was not, in fact, anywhere near the legal department.

An unlikely friendship had been born that day though because instead of turning around and scampering away out of sheer embarrassment, Lando had plopped himself down in the chair opposite your desk and spent nearly an hour and a half peppering you with questions about your job.

Lando liked those moments he got to slip away during his busy days at the MTC to see you. It seemed like lately, he would find himself carving out time during his day to make a special visit to your office no matter what else he had scheduled that day. He liked the way you talked to him like he was a normal person and how easily you laughed at his jokes. You never made him feel stupid or inferior for asking questions about whatever project you were working on that day and you never asked him about racing. Not once. You were also the prettiest girl he'd ever seen and he was embarrassingly addicted to making you smile.

"You look stunning tonight." Lando says in a hushed voice. "Red is your color."

Although he's next to you still, Lando manages to steal little looks at you out of the corner of his eye. The red dress you've got on tonight should be illegal and it's showing off every dip and curve of your body. You pride yourself on how well you dress at the office but tended to stick with neutral colors and classic, conservative shapes that weren't jarring and allowed you to fade into the noise of a busy office a bit. The red was totally out of character for you and Lando found himself wanting to buy you an entire closet full of colorful dresses.

Your cheeks go crimson and you're thankful for the dim lights that hide it. "Thank you."

The other thing you're not used to is attention from men. Like your social life, any semblance of a dating life had been put on the back burner when you became a single mom. You didn't much miss it, if you were bing quite honest. Spending time with Stella was better than wasting a night on a man that would only end up disappointing you.

So when someone like Lando complimented you on the dress you wore you don't quite know how to react.

"Momma! Momma, look what Auntie Sarah and I made!" Stella interrupts anything that's about to come out of Lando's mouth when she runs up brandishing what looks to be a fairy wand tied with dozens of glittery ribbons.

You crouch down, not missing the way Lando stiffens beside you, and take the plastic wand out of Stella's hand. "Is this a magic wand?" You ask, voice breathy with awe.

"Yeah! Aunt Sarah helped tie the ribbons on after I picked them. They're all glittery and match Elsa's ice queen dress."

You smile, Elsa had always been Stella's favorite Disney princess. "That is so special, Stelly Belly."

A few feet away, Sarah takes in how close you and Lando were before Stella interrupted and smirks. "Come on, Stella. I think I saw a cookie decorating contest starting over by the wands!"

You stand, eyeing your best friend. "I can take her, Sarah. I'm sure you want to mingle."

"Nope! Stay. Talk. Be merry!" Sarah's eyes bounce between you and Lando and your cheeks heat at the implication.

Beside you, Lando rubs at his jaw trying to process the information he's just learned. Momma? This girl, cute as a button, was calling you mom? He rifles through his memory, trying to think of any time you'd ever mentioned being a mom and he can't come up with a single thing. And he's pretty sure he remembers everything you've ever said to him.

"You have a daughter." Lando says it more as a statement than a question and you wince.

This was always the part where you tended to lose people. Being as young as you were, you were used to people being put off by the fact that you had a daughter. A lot of people your age weren't ready for kids yet and had a hard time figuring you out because you had such radically different priorities. Neither set of priorities was better than the other, just different.

"I do. Her name is Stella." You respond, leaning against the pillar once again. The cool marble sends shivers down your back as you prepare to lose someone who had made more of an impact on you than you realized.

"You never said anything about her." He observes, his tone unreadable.

"You never asked." You shrug, trying not to get defensive. "Her pictures are all over my office, Lan. I've never hid the fact that I have Stella."

Lando thinks back, recalling the office he's spent so much time in lately. You're right, of course. There are bits of Stella all over the place in the drawings on your desk to the school picture that sits near the spider plant close to the window. But somehow Lando had never noticed anything else other than you.

He rubs at the back of his neck, "I guess I just assumed she was your niece or something."

"Nope. She's all mine."

"And her dad?" The moment the question slips from Lando's mouth, he regrets it. His eyes shutter closed but not before he catches a glimpse of the way you flinch.

He hates himself for thinking he deserves to be privy to this information. For being so bold as to ask for the sordid details of your life when all you are to each other is a casual work flirtation. He hates himself for implying that you'd ever flirt with him when there was someone else in the picture. Or worse, that you now have to relive a painful story behind why there wasn't.

"You don't have to answer that." God, he was so good at speaking before thinking, wasn't he? It had gotten him into so much hot water with the press this year during the championship run and here he was again, putting his foot in his mouth like an idiot.

"It's fine." You sigh, knowing that anyone who wants to be in your life is going to have to hear the story at some point. You just hadn't anticipated it happening with Lando, having been perfectly content with the safety of your innocent work flirtation.

"I had Stella when I was 19, her dad was killed in a car accident when she was eight months old. She turned six in September.”

The silence that stretches between you is heavy, clashing with the light and festive mood that swirls around you.

"Christ. I'm sorry, love."

You hate how painful that tugging sensation on your heart is when Lando calls you 'love'.

Shrugging, you hope you feign nonchalance well enough to fool him. You know it doesn’t.

“Listen, I should go check on Sarah and Stella, make sure Stella doesn't sweet talk Sarah into a puppy or something. Those two together is how I ended up with a kitten last year."

The brightness in your voice is all for show but Lando sees right through it.

You're gone before he can get a word in though.

yourusername (private) posted

102 likes liked by BFFsarah, yourdad, yoursister, and others yourusername Quick trip into London for some last minute pressies! yourdad I'm a size Rolex in silver and gold please! >>>yourusername Ha Ha Ha, very funny father BFFsarah Brave brave girl! >>>yourusername brave or stupid, you decide!!!

"Come on, sweet girl, let's find your Papa a Christmas present so we can get out of this mad house."

You tug at Stella's hand, who was currently practically drooling over a display of sparkly gold and diamond jewelry in Harrods jewelry department. Around you, crowds swirl and people jostle each other as they all hustle to pick out their precious gifts before Santa's big night. Why you had chosen to come into London the weekend before Christmas was a mystery, but you were fully convinced that you had lost it when you had agreed to come to Harrods at Stella's request.

"But this necklace is so pretty, Momma!" Stella whines, eyes dragging over the diamond necklace on display in front of her.

"Yes, I know but I don't think your grandpa wants a diamond necklace for Christmas. Let's go up to the fifth floor where the kitchen gadgets are! You know how much he loves to cook!"

Stella rolls her eyes, which you choose to ignore. For all of her attitude today, Stella wasn't usually an ornery child. She was very well behaved and quite reserved so you gave her extra grace when it was crowded and loud like this. You knew she got overstimulated easily, just like you did.

"Fine." She sighs, casting one last longing look at the display. "Maybe Santa will bring me the necklace." She mutters and you have to tamp down a laugh.

You take Stella's hand in yours, despite her giving you another look of contempt. She was much too big of a girl to be holding her mother's hand, thank you very much. You ignored the glare and squeezed at your daughter's hand, knowing that she's not really angry at you.

Up on the fifth floor, the homewares section is significantly quieter than where you just were. Stella spots a display of colorful Kitchen Aid mixers that she scampers over to while you wander over to the espresso machines while reminding her to stick close. Out of the corner of your eye, you keep watch over her while debating the merits of different coffee machines.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite McLaren employee out in the wild." A velvety smooth voice sends familiar shivers down your spine.

"Favorite? You've been avoiding me since the holiday party." You quip without taking your eyes off the silver machine in front of you, knowing exactly who it is beside you without even looking.

Ever since the holiday party nearly two weeks ago, you hand't seen Lando at all despite knowing that he was at the MTC at least a few days. You hated that you knew that most of that time he had been out of the country, skiing in France then golfing in Spain. You also hated that you kept track of the amount of times you had known he was in Woking at the MTC and hadn't even bothered to stop in and say 'hi' to you.

Lando's hand rubs at the back of his neck. "I know. I'm sorry." His voice is low, tinged with guilt.

"Listen, it's fine." You turn to face him for the first time and your traitorous heart thuds a little harder in your chest. That mullet you teased him about so much at first had really grown on you and boy did it look good today.

"It's not like we're friends, Lando." You don't work as hard as you probably should to keep the frustration out of your voice. "You don't owe me anything and it's the off season for you. I shouldn't have said anything."

Lando frowns at you, confusion knitting his brow together. "We...we aren’t friends?" The hurt in his voice was unmistakable, tugging painfully at something in the pit of your stomach.

Your eyes shutter close at the look on his face. Lando might play the lovable goofball for the public and in the press but you knew better. You knew that he was a pretty big softie at heart and you immediately regretted your words, knowing that they would have struck him deep.

"What was I supposed to think, Lan? You seemed pretty put off when you found out about Stella and then you just..." You pause, unsure of where this anger was coming from. You hadn't really realized how hurt you had bene by his sudden ghosting until this very moment. "You just sort of disappeared. It's fine. I'm totally used to it."

The vulnerability in your voice makes Lando's heart clench painfully. He had been spooked initially about you having a daughter and he knew his reaction probably left a lot to be desired. He just had been so blindsided by the appearance of your little girl that night that he hadn't handled it well. Lando had been unwilling to admit before that night during the holiday party that he had been becoming more and more attached to you and he didn't know where Stella fell into place between you and him. It scared him, adding an entirely new layer to the budding friendship that you two had struck up. A friendship that he had been wanting to see if it could have progressed into more but now...now he didn't know.

"Momma, can we get Papa a mixer so he can make me more cakes next year?" Stella's small voice interrupts that awkward silence that had fallen between you and Lando.

You can't help the chuckle that leaves your lips despite yourself. "Stella, I don't think that's a very good reason to gift someone something."

"I don't know, sounds like solid reasoning to me." Lando chimes in, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looks down at Stella. "Hi, I'm Lando." He crouches down so he's eye level with your daughter.

"That's a funny name." Stella regards Lando with a suspicious look. Stella is a quiet little mouse of a child most of the time and doesn't easily trust adults. There are very few people she's comfortable which is why her comment catches you off guard.

"Stella!" You scold, face going crimson at the lack of filter on her.

To your relief, Lando just chuckles. "I guess you're right, it is kind of a funny name. But I think Stella is a funny name too."

Stella' narrows her eyes but then she seems to realize he's just teasing her and she smiles. "I like you." She declares simply, as if deciding to be Lando's friend is the easiest thing in the world.

A fact that you already know is true.

"I'm hungry. Can we go get dinner now?" Stella turns back to you now and you startle a bit when you realize what time it is.

"Let me take you two to dinner. There's a place down the street that has some of the best chicken nuggets in all of England." Lando's offer throws you off for a moment you're so surprised. "As an apology for making you question our friendship."

Stella gasps as if that is the most exciting suggestion she's ever heard in her life. Your stomach does a quick swoop at spending more time with the driver outside of the office. You are a bit hesitant, pride still stinging from when he ignored you after the holiday party, but Stella looks so excited you find yourself nodding.

Twenty minutes and one espresso machine later, you have the giant package shipped off to your house before walking towards a cozy pub that Lando suggests. It's strange to you, walking down the crowded streets with Stella tucked between you and Lando, listening to her prattle away. Once in a while, Lando shoots you a look over the top of your daughter's head that is all amusement and happiness.

Meanwhile, you're reduced to silence, listening in awe to Stella's babbling. She has always been a reserved little girl, following in her mother's footsteps of being an introvert. She doesn't open up to just anyone and even when she does find an adult she likes, it takes her quite a bit of time to talk to them the way she's talking to Lando as he navigates the three of you towards your destination.

Around you, people bustle up and down the sidewalk, the streets of London an absolute hive of activity and it's a bit overwhelming. You're momentarily worried about Stella, knowing she doesn't do very good in crowds just like you but then something catches your eye that has your heart leaping into your throat. Captured in Lando's large hand is Stella's tiny one, a silent gesture of affection from your six-year-old. The way your chest squeezes at the sight has tears pricking at the corner of your eyes.

Lando catches the look on your face, full of awe and something else he can't quite place, and when your gaze snags on his moments later he gives you a dazzling smile. When Stella had reached out to take Lando's hand a few blocks ago, he had panicked a bit. He wasn't too experienced with kids, his niece’s being much younger than Stella, but he felt something deep in his chest that told him when the little girl beside him reached for his hand, it was a sincere sign of trust from her.

"Here we are." Lando says once you're safely across the road. "I hope you're ready for the best chicken nuggets in all of London."

Dinner is a loud affair, Stella peppering questions left and right to Lando and Lando expertly fielding them. He even gets some questions in edgewise and has both you and Stella laughing the entire meal. It's the most relaxed Lando's seen you the entire time he's known you. Despite his initial reservations at spending time with someone who has a child, he finds himself not wanting the evening to end. He's never been so thankful for last minute gift requests in his entire life.

Your bellies are full when you spill out onto the sidewalk, the chilly London air biting at your cheeks. It was going to be a cold train ride home. You reach into your tote bag to pull out a scarf and hat, tugging both on Stella despite her yowls of displeasure.

"Stella." You sigh, finally getting her to leave her hat on her head after a tense few moments as Lando watched on, smile sitting at the edge of his lips. "Come on, it's cold tonight and you know the train isn't much better."

"Train?" Lando asks, frown appearing on his face.

"We took the train into the city today. Someone wanted an adventure." You look pointedly at your daughter, who just shrugs, totally unfazed by the chilly evening air.

"That's like, a forty-five minute trip! On the train? At night? Alone?"

Something twists in Lando's stomach at the thought of you and Stella all alone on the train at night. He knows the trains are, objectively, safe and you'd probably be fine but it just doesn't sit right with him knowing that he'd have to leave both of you at a train station unable to be with you in case something happened.

"I know." You breathe, knowing that the moment Stella sits down on the train she's going to be out like a light and you're going to have a very grumpy six-year-old on your hands on the other end of the line. "I don't have a choice, I'm not ordering an Uber home. It'll be fine, Lando. We do this all the time."

The thought of you navigating the crowded train alone with the tiny wisp of a girl that tucked her hand back into his as soon as she got close enough to him hurts a surprising amount. It's a jarring feeling, one that he's totally unprepared for. His memory darts back to the night he found out you had a daughter. He thought for sure the budding chemistry between you would fizzle out. He had thought that he wasn't interested in getting involved with someone who had a child because it complicated things to a degree he wasn't sure he was ready for. He still struggled with looking after himself successfully sometimes. Dating someone with a child? Up until this very moment, Lando thought that was completely off the table.

"You're not taking the train home. I'll drive you." Lando's voice has an edge of finality in it that tells you this is going to be a fight, one that you're not sure you're prepared to fight.

You blink up at him, unable to form a response for several moments. Beside you, Stella cheers. "Yes! No boring train!"

"Woah, slow down." You warn, shaking your head. "Lando, I appreciate the offer but we can't." Stella looks absolutely crestfallen next to you as she yanks her hand out of Lando's grasp and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Why not?" Lando's frown mirrors Stella's and you nearly laugh.

Beside the fact that he couldn't stand the thought of you on the train by yourself with Stella this late at night, Lando didn't really want the night to end. He had sat across from you at dinner and there were several moments while Stella chattered on that he caught your gaze and you had given him the most prettiest smile he'd ever seen.

"Well, for one, Stella needs a booster seat to ride in a car and I don't think those come standard in Ferrari's or McLaren's."

"For the record, I drove my Range Rover into the city." Lando retorts before glancing around the crowded city street. "Look! There's a Mamas & Papas across the street! That's where my brother got my niece’s carseat a few months ago. I'm sure they sell booster seats too."

You can't help but stare at Lando, a bit dumbfounded. When you had started getting to know the driver months ago, you had what you had thought was a pretty accurate idea of who he was off the track: young, sinfully good looking, deeply unserious, and only interested in partying and having a good time. But voluntarily spending an evening with you and your daughter? Offering to buy Stella a booster so he could drive you home? The way Lando surprised you in that moment had you swaying on your feet a bit.

"Can we, Momma? Please! I want to drive home with Lando!"

There are two sets of big puppy dog eyes turned on you and you find yourself tossing your hands up in the air in defeat. "That's not fair! You two can't team up against me!"

Lando looks down at Stella, mischievous grin overtaking his handsome face. "I think we won, Stelly Belly." He shout-whispers, eyes sliding over to you, giving you a wink.

"You two are going to be trouble together, aren't you?" Is the last thing you say before Lando grabs your hand and drags you towards the shop to buy your daughter a booster seat.

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[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hi lovely, I absolutely love your stories. I was wondering if you could write one for Lewis, he has a daughter who is 16-17 and is absolutely smart, like Einstein smart and it's her first time in the Ferrari garage since Lewis moved and she saw a fault in some engineering work and helped fixing it and shocked her father and the whole garage. Thank you

The Future of Ferrari

Ferrari’s Maranello garage was a symphony of whirring drills, clanking tools, and intense Italian chatter. The team was hard at work preparing for the weekend’s qualifying session, red and black suits moving in well-practiced rhythm. Amid the organized chaos, one presence stood out—not because of noise, but because of the absolute silence and awe she left in her wake.

A girl with thick curls pulled into a loose bun and wide, observant brown eyes stood at the edge of the garage. She wore an oversized red hoodie with the Ferrari emblem on the chest, and a lanyard hung from her neck, swinging gently with her movements. Her expression was sharp, analyzing every corner of the room like she was mentally dissecting the internal combustion engine of the SF-24 just by looking at it.

“Daaaad,” she called out, trying not to sound impatient. “Where do you keep the drinks around here? I’m thirsty.”

Lewis turned around, helmet under his arm, his eyes immediately softening at the sight of his daughter. “Over there, near the data screens. Just don’t unplug anything or they’ll have a meltdown,” he teased, pointing her toward the crew’s refreshment corner.

She smirked. “Please, I could rewire this place blindfolded.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “That’s the confidence of a teenager with three physics awards.”

“Five,” she corrected, walking off.

As she moved across the garage, a few of the engineers took notice, recognizing her as Lewis’s daughter. Most had heard rumors of her intellect. She had attended MIT lectures for fun while vacationing in the States and was known for winning national-level science competitions in Europe. But seeing her in the flesh, in their sacred garage? That was new.

She sipped a bottle of water and leaned casually against a pillar, eyes drifting over the open rear of the car. Something wasn’t sitting right. She tilted her head, stepped forward a bit, and squinted at the gearbox housing.

A technician walked past her, carrying a tablet. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping closer to the car. “Is that the final mount design for the differential casing?”

The man blinked at her. “Uh… yes?”

She pointed to a specific joint just behind the casing. “That’s going to cause micro-vibrations under torque load. The fastener's alignment is 1.3 degrees off. It’s subtle, but enough to affect the car's handling mid-corner. Especially if it's hot.”

The tech frowned, unsure if he should laugh or worry.

“Sorry, who are you again?”

“Just his daughter,” she replied, nodding toward Lewis, who was now talking with his race engineer.

“Do you want to… maybe sit down?” he asked awkwardly.

But she stepped past him, crouched slightly, and gestured at a younger engineer who was watching curiously.

“Can I borrow your torque data? Just real quick.”

The engineer hesitated, then handed her the tablet.

She began typing, pulling up schematics, calculations appearing rapidly on the screen. Her thumbs moved like lightning, her brow furrowed in concentration. A few other engineers were gathering now, whispering among themselves.

“I recalculated the stress vector. See?” she turned the tablet toward them. “It looks fine in theory, but under compound load—especially with the way the aero package is set up—it’ll shift. You’ll get slight inconsistencies in traction, which is bad news during qualifying laps.”

The older technician who’d first questioned her stepped forward again. “Are you saying we need to rework this section?”

“I’m saying you need to adjust the mounting bracket by 1.3 degrees, shift the load path just slightly to the left, and reinforce it with carbon-composite washers. If you do that, you’ll stabilize the torque vector and improve rear-end consistency in Sector 3.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then—

“Where did you learn that?” one of the senior mechanics asked, blinking.

She shrugged. “I read a paper about torque distribution in high-speed cornering last week. Got bored on the flight here.”

Someone stifled a laugh. Another said under his breath, “Bloody hell…”

“Oi!” Lewis called, finally noticing the growing crowd. “What’s going on?”

The head of engineering, a stern Italian named Matteo, stepped forward and gestured for Lewis to come over.

“Your daughter,” he began slowly, still sounding amazed, “just found a design flaw we didn’t catch. One that would’ve possibly cost you two-tenths per lap. Maybe more.”

Lewis stared. “Wait. What?”

Matteo pointed at her. “She’s… she’s like a walking CFD simulator. She even pulled up our own torque data.”

Lewis turned to her, his face a mixture of disbelief and fatherly pride. “Sweetheart, what did you do?”

She looked up innocently. “I fixed your car. You’re welcome.”

A round of laughter broke out, but it was warm, appreciative. The crew clapped her on the back, some shaking their heads in awe.

“She’s incredible,” Matteo said to Lewis. “You sure she’s not secretly part of Red Bull’s spy program?”

Lewis laughed. “Trust me, if she were, we’d all be in trouble. She’s probably smarter than half the grid already.”

“I’m smarter than you,” she teased.

“Absolutely no doubt about that,” he replied with a grin, ruffling her hair.

She smoothed it down with a roll of her eyes. “So dramatic.”

The engineers quickly got to work implementing her suggestions. Matteo kept glancing back at her like she was some kind of wizard. Lewis watched with arms folded, his heart swelling.

After a while, she stood beside him, watching the updated component go onto the car.

“So… what did you think?” he asked gently.

She tilted her head. “It’s loud. Smells like oil. Half the men here don’t know how to hold a tablet properly.”

Lewis laughed. “Welcome to Formula One.”

She smiled. “It’s cool, though. I like it.”

He nudged her shoulder. “You ever think about working in this world someday? Engineering, maybe?”

She glanced at him, then back at the car. “Maybe. If they can keep up.”

He chuckled again. “No pressure, but… you made me proud today.”

She looked at him seriously. “You’re always proud.”

“True. But today, I’m blown away. You just walked into one of the most elite garages on the planet and made a critical engineering correction before lunch.”

She gave a shy smile, shrugging. “Just saw something wrong and fixed it.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You’ve always done that. In your own way.”

As the car roared to life for testing, the modified part holding firm, Lewis and his daughter stood side by side, two Hamiltons—one a living legend of the track, the other a rising genius who might just change the sport in her own quiet, brilliant way.

And somewhere behind them, Matteo whispered to a fellow engineer, “Keep an eye on her. She’s the future.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-♡○♡

[cuzxai]

challenger - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: need this real bad… spence fucking the smart out of you in the bureau bathroom

You’re exhausted but sharp. The kind of exhaustion that lives in your shoulders but doesn’t quite dull your brain. It’s the third day of a case that’s left the team running in circles—three abductions, two confirmed murders and a ticking clock no one can afford to ignore. The fluorescent lights in office hum above your head like a warning tone. You’re all gathered around the case board and Spencer is talking.

“There’s a pattern here,” he says, eyes flicking across photos and timelines like they’re just numbers on a chalkboard. “All of them were taken on a Tuesday, between 5 and 7 p.m. Each one from a public area—a park, a parking lot, a bus stop. I think the unsub’s operating in a comfort zone that’s tied to routine. He’s not escalating, he’s repeating.”

You shift your weight onto your other foot, arms crossed. “Or,” you counter, “he’s desperate and trying to regain control by mimicking his own methods. The injuries aren’t the same. Look at the restraint marks on the last victim—they’re erratic. Sloppier.”

Spencer’s head turns slightly, jaw tightening. “That could be due to external pressure. Media coverage, police presence—there are other variables.”

“Sure,” you say, voice even, “but you’re assuming external pressure. What if the pressure’s internal? What if this guy’s unraveling and trying to hold it together by copying his own process?”

Morgan leans back in his chair, muttering something like “here we go,” but you don’t look away from Spencer. He’s bristling. You can see it—subtle but there. His fingers twitch near his temple like he’s restraining the urge to rub at it.

“I’m just saying,” you add, “you’re so focused on the statistics, you’re ignoring the behavioral inconsistencies.”

“And you’re so obsessed with profiling the emotions,” Spencer says, turning toward you now, “that you’re missing the quantitative signs. You can’t draw a conclusion from three data points and call it behavioral science.” Your heart rate ticks up—not from the argument but from him. From the way his voice raises half a decibel, from the way he always assumes he’s right until you force him to consider otherwise. It’s infuriating. It’s also kind of hot. But you’d rather die than admit that.

JJ glances between the two of you with raised brows and Emily mutters under her breath, “This is getting academic.”

“No,” you say firmly, stepping toward the board and pointing at the newest photo. “This? This is him slipping. The duct tape placement here is completely different. Look at the angle—it’s hasty. Rushed.”

Spencer steps closer too, too close really but neither of you move away. “That doesn’t prove unraveling,” he replies. “It proves a change in circumstance.”

“You mean the same thing.”

“I mean exactly not the same thing.” His tone is clipped, your glare sharp. It’s quiet for a beat.

Then Hotch looks up from his tablet and says dryly, “You two. Step out, now.”

Your eyes widen just slightly, heat crawling up the back of your neck. Spencer’s brows shoot up like he didn’t expect to be reprimanded. Morgan smirks into his coffee. Emily lets out a low whistle, not even trying to hide it. “Go cool off,” Hotch adds.

You both leave the room in tense silence, walking too fast, too stiff. The door clicks shut behind you and you’re in the hallway—alone, fluorescent lights buzzing again, echoing against tile and drywall. Spencer’s breathing is tight. Controlled. “You didn’t have to challenge everything I said.”

You blink at him. “I wasn’t challenging. I was correcting.” That’s when it turns. His head tilts slightly. His voice drops low.

“You’re incapable of letting me finish a thought without interruption.”

You raise a brow. “Maybe if your thoughts weren’t so half-formed.”

“Oh, that’s rich—coming from someone who once claimed impulse control was a myth while eating licorice for breakfast.” You step into him without realizing, your shoulder brushing his chest.

“That was one time. And I stand by it.” Spencer exhales, sharp and disbelieving like you’re somehow both beneath and above him. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something but then he doesn’t.

He just looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s trying to study you, like you’re suddenly not the opponent but the hypothesis. Like he’s trying to profile you. And that’s when you both notice the door to the staff bathroom is half open. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say a word. He just turns and walks in. And you follow.

The door clicks shut behind you and the silence is thick. Spencer’s already facing you, his expression unreadable—tense, a little breathless, like he’s not sure who’s going to make the next move. So you do. You step up until there’s barely space between your chests, your chin tilted just enough to meet his eyes. “You were saying something about impulse control?” you ask, soft and taunting. His eyes flick to your mouth, fast. Like he didn’t mean to, like it betrayed him.

“You’re impossible,” he breathes, but his voice has lost all edge.

You smile slowly. “You don’t sound like you hate me.”

Spencer exhales a shaky breath through his nose. “I don’t.” There’s no more talking.

His hands are on your face, your waist, your back—everywhere at once. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been biting his tongue for years and now it’s all spilling out, heat and frustration and something deeper. You grab the front of his button-down, half pulling, half clawing at it, and he groans into the kiss like he’s starving. You spin him until his back hits the stall door. It creaks under the weight and he barely manages to flick the lock shut before you’re pulling at his belt. Your fingers are frantic, fumbling but he stills them with one of his own—curling over your wrist, grounding you. “Let me,” he says, low. “You’ll stretch the leather.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter but you let him. And when he works it open with those long, practiced fingers, you barely notice that your back is now pressed to the wall, cold tile seeping through your clothes. Then Spencer drops to his knees. You gasp. “What are you—”

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up as his hands move to the waistband of your pants. “You’re always so good at talking back. Keep going.” You open your mouth to say something smart, something biting—but all that comes out is a breathy moan as he pulls your pants down your legs with precision, lips brushing your thigh on the way. His mouth is warm. Skilled. Unrelenting.

You slap a hand over your own mouth, back arching, one leg trembling against his shoulder as he holds it steady. His fingers dig into your thigh, hard enough to leave bruises. And when his eyes flutter shut, he moans like this is about him, like you’re his favorite meal and he’s been starving for weeks. You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging hard and he groans again—like praise. “God,” you pant. “I—I should’ve—”

“I know,” he whispers against your skin. “You should’ve argued with me earlier.” You let out a shaky laugh. He smiles, going back down. You slap a hand against the tile behind you, the other gripping his hair like a lifeline.

“Fuck—Spencer—” His hands grip your thighs, spreading you just enough, holding you steady as his tongue laps slow, then firm, then teasing again. He shifts a little, then locks eyes with you as he seals his mouth around your clit and sucks.

Your head knocks against the wall. You bite down on a moan so hard your lip might bleed. He doesn’t stop. If anything, the sounds you make just fuel him. He’s greedy with it—licking like you’re a problem he’s solving, a theory he’s proving, something he won’t give up on until you’re falling apart in his hands. One of your legs starts trembling.

“Spencer—God.” your voice breaks as your hips buck against him. He groans again, mouth dragging slow and wet over you, nose brushing where you’re most sensitive. His grip tightens. You can barely stay upright. And just when you think you’re about to come—he pulls back. You whimper, flushed and panting and glare down at him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lips glossy and red, smirking like the bastard he is. “You’re not getting off that easy,” he says, low and smug. You barely have time to curse him before he stands, kisses you rough and lifts you back into his arms like he never left his knees at all.

He kisses you hard—sloppy and eager, like he can’t decide whether to savor you or consume you whole. His tongue finds yours, tasting the echo of you still lingering on his lips, and you moan into his mouth because god, he’s not playing fair. You barely register the way he lifts you until you feel the cold counter under your ass. His hands are firm on your thighs, dragging you forward until your legs are bracketing his hips. The friction makes you gasp. Your shirt’s still on but your bra is shoved up, his button-up hanging open, his belt clinking with every shift. It’s messy and loud and rushed but the tension between you has been simmering for months—this was never going to be slow.

“You still think you’re smarter than me?” he growls against your neck, nipping hard enough to leave a mark. “Still think you can walk around acting like you know better?”

You choke out a laugh, tilting your head to give him more access. “I am smarter than you.” He bites down harder. You yelp but it turns into a moan as he lines himself up, pushes in—slow, deep—you both gasp. “This is so,” you whisper, breath caught in your throat, “so inappropriate.”

He grins, eyes wild. “Technically we’re on a mandated break.”

The thrusts start slow. Deliberate. Like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he wants to make this last longer than he knows it can. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in and his breath stutters when you bite down on his jaw. “You’re so—” he groans, “God, you’re insufferable.”

“You love it,” you whisper.

He replied without hesitation, “I really do.” It’s a rhythm then. Heated, sloppy, completely unprofessional. You both know someone could walk in. That there are voices in the hallway, that the lock isn’t strong—but none of it matters. Not when he’s like this. Not when you’re like this. And not when every thrust makes the wall groan behind you. “Oh my—fuck, Spencer.”

“Say it again,” he grits out, hips snapping into you. “Say you’re smarter.”

You’re breathless, half-laughing through the haze of it all. “You—fuck— need me to stroke your ego that bad?”

He slams into you harder in response. “Need you to shut up before someone hears you.”

“I don’t think you care if they do.”

He doesn’t deny it. His hand snakes up between your bodies, thumb dragging over your clit in tight, perfect circles. You jolt in his grip, hands flying to his hair, your thighs trembling where they’re locked around him. It’s dizzying, relentless, the heat curling low in your stomach growing unbearable. And just when you’re sure you’re about to unravel again—he pulls out.

You blink, dazed. “Huh—?”

He turns you around before you can catch your breath, bending you over the counter. His hand flattens between your shoulder blades, holding you there as he kicks your feet apart and sinks back in from behind. You can see yourself in the mirror. You cry out at the stretch, fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface.

He’s fucking you now—deep and fast, every thrust knocking the breath out of you, every slap of skin against skin echoing loud in the small bathroom. His hand slips around, rubbing your clit again in sync with his thrusts, you see stars.

“Spencer—” Your voice is shaking, half-strangled with need as he pounds into you from behind, every slap of his hips sending jolts of pleasure down your spine. Your hands are braced on the counter, knuckles white but it’s not enough to keep you steady. Not with the way he’s fucking you like he’s got something to prove. And maybe he does. Maybe this is him trying to one-up you in the one arena where he knows he doesn’t have to compete—because you’re already falling apart under him. But he doesn’t let you go over that edge. Not yet.

“What’s wrong?” he breathes low and smug. “You were so confident before and now you can’t form a sentence? Thought you had all the answers.”

You jerk your body up to meet him, head spinning, breath coming in sharp gasps. “Shut up,” you bite out, muscles tightening as you force out a laugh, defiant even as his dick keeps dragging that perfect angle.

“Don’t want to hear me talk, huh?” he mocks. “But you can’t help but listen, can you?”

You try to move your hands but his grip is too tight, fingers digging into your wrists as his pace quickens. His thumb slips under your chin, lifting your face just enough for him to look at you with that insufferable smugness, his own arousal written all over his features.

“Are you really going to argue with me now?” he mutters, voice thick with want but still that level of condescension. “Because last I checked, your body’s telling me everything I need to know.”

“Fuck you,” you manage to snap, even as he angles his hips to hit deeper and it knocks the breath out of you. You almost choke on your words. He doesn’t let up. Instead, he pulls your hair just hard enough that your head tilts back and your throat is exposed.

“You’re dripping for me and you want to tell me you hate me?”

You don’t even know why you answer but you do. “Yeah, I fucking do. I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he mutters, tugging on your hair again, forcing you to look him in the eye. “You can’t hate me when your pussy’s telling me otherwise.” Your jaw clenches, a frustrated growl escaping your lips. You’re so fucking close but he’s pulling back just enough that you can’t come. He’s in control now. He’s always in control. And you hate it. Spencer leans in, his breath brushing against your ear. “I know what you want. Don’t act like you’re not dying for it.” He shifts again and suddenly you feel his fingers slide into your mouth—uninvited but not unwelcome. It’s messy as you suck on his fingers, the taste of him coating your tongue but the position he has you in—helpless, needy, at his mercy—makes it hard to care.

“Still hate me?” he asks again, the words almost teasing.

“I’m so close,” you breathe, and your voice is breaking. “Just let me—”

“You need to ask for it, don’t you?” He pulls his fingers from your mouth, wiping them on your cheek as he watches you, his mouth falls open slightly. “You can’t finish without me telling you to.”

“Let me,” you almost whimper, your body shaking, on the edge of something. “Please. Please.” He grins like he’s won, his grip on your wrists loosening just enough.

“You’ve got such a dirty mouth, I kind of like it,” he mutters, then he finally lets go, his fingers back at your throat, not quite choking, just keeping you where he wants you. “You don’t get to finish just because you ask,” he says, thrusting hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. “Not yet.”

It’s a mix of sweet relief and pure frustration, your body writhing under him. Every angle is perfect, every inch of him dragging you closer to something you can’t control. He’s fucking you through your angry little comments, through the way you fight him even as you beg for more. Spencer leans in to bite at your neck, growling in your ear as he pulls your hair again, tighter this time.

“God, you’re so fucking stubborn,” he hisses and suddenly, he’s fucking you harder, faster, like he’s punishing you for every dumb word you’ve ever said to him.

“I hate you,” you gasp, hands desperately trying to grip anything to steady yourself but it’s futile. He’s the one in control and you’re too far gone to care about anything else. But when his hand snakes back between your legs, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision, you lose it. You’re falling apart and you don’t care that you’re still supposed to hate him. You don’t care that you’re both too stubborn to admit it.

“Don’t come yet,” he growls. “Not until I say so.” You bite back a scream, his voice still ringing in your ears.

“Fuck, Spencer.” His grip tightens again, fingers digging in and you know he’s close too. He’s holding you, using you and in this moment, you have no power. And you fucking love it.

You don’t know if you ever hated anyone this much. You don’t know if you ever wanted anyone more. Spencer’s breathing is shallow now, hot against the back of your neck as he drives into you from behind, both of you falling apart together—his hand spread over your lower stomach to keep you from moving, his other hand tangled tight in your hair.

“Jesus, you feel so good like this,” he groans, low and rough. “So fucking wet. You gonna come for me now?” You barely manage a response—something choked and shaky, some version of his name that sounds like begging. Your face is red, mouth parted, flushed and panting and he doesn’t slow down. He wants to ruin you. “See?” he murmurs, his voice shaking with effort but his mouth still so fucking smug. “I knew all that attitude was just overcompensation. You were dying for this.” You shake your head weakly, more from the overwhelming heat and pressure than actual disagreement.

“You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore,” he says, thrusting deeper, harder, one hand sliding up your body. “Just so cock-drunk.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe but it comes out weak. Your legs are trembling, fingers scraping against the counter, mind clouded by nothing but the pace of his thrusts and the filthy rhythm of his voice in your ear.

“Mm. You are.” His lips brush the edge of your jaw, voice dark and breathless. “You’re so fucking close, I can feel it. You’re pulsing around me. You wanna come, sweetheart?” Your head nods instinctively, a small sound tumbling from your lips. “You need it, don’t you?” he keeps going, fucking into you like he’s trying to mark his territory, like he wants to fuck the fight right out of you. “You’ve been giving me shit for months and now you’re so dumb on my dick you can’t even talk.”

You’d hit him if your arms weren’t shaking. You’d argue—tell him to shut up, tell him he’s full of shit—but all that leaves you is a needy, whimpering sound. “Come on,” he mutters, his hand sliding down to your clit again, rubbing rough, desperate circles. “Come for me. You want to.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before you’re unraveling, your body arching back into his, a sharp cry caught in your throat. Your orgasm hits you hard, hot and fast and blinding and you’re squeezing around him so tight it forces a moan from his chest. “Fuck, just like that,” he groans, slamming into you once, twice more before he follows, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, panting through clenched teeth, his fingers bruising your hips as he holds you still.

The only sounds for a few seconds are ragged breathing, your heart pounding, and the faint, distant hum of a case still happening outside that locked bathroom door. Then he slumps forward slightly, letting go of your hips and leaning his forehead against your shoulder.

“Well,” he breathes, hoarse and wrecked. “That escalated.” You don’t say anything for a moment—still catching your breath, still trying to convince your legs to hold you up.

And then you mutter, “I still think your theory was bullshit.”

Spencer lets out a laugh, soft and disbelieving. “Jesus Christ.” His hands are still on you. You don’t move. Neither of you do. Because as much as you hate each other, neither of you wants to stop touching. It takes a moment before either of you move again.

You’re still pressed up against the counter, legs shaking, heartbeat trying to slow down, when Spencer finally steps back. He’s quiet about it, gentle even, his hands catching your waist like he’s afraid you might tip over. You tug your pants back up, spine still curved, bracing yourself with one hand against the counter. He fixes his pants with shaking fingers, running a hand through his hair like it’ll make any difference. It doesn’t.

You glance over your shoulder, your voice still raw when you say, “You’ve got a scratch on your neck.”

He gives you a look—half amusement, half disbelief. “From you.”

“You were asking for it.”

He huffs. Rolls his eyes. Tries not to smile but fails anyway. You grab some paper towels to clean up, stealing glances in the mirror over the sink. Your mascara’s slightly smudged, your lips kiss-bitten. He’s worse—hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes a little too glassy.

“We look insane,” you mutter.

“We look like we just had sex in the Bureau bathroom,” he says flatly.

“Same thing.”

He catches your eye in the mirror. For a second, it’s awkward. Just enough for the realization to hit—you just fucked Spencer Reid. During work. In the middle of a case. He clears his throat, straightens his tie like that’ll fix anything. “We should get back.” You blink at him. “You think we’re not gonna get ripped to shreds the second we walk in there?”

He shrugs. “We’re both excellent profilers. We’ll gaslight them.”

You smirk despite yourself. “You’re the most unhinged person I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the most competitive person I’ve ever had sex with.”

You tilt your head. “That wasn’t a competition.”

“It was absolutely a competition.” He opens the door first, checking the hallway. When it’s clear, you both step out like two spies post-mission—subtle, casual or at least trying to be. The bullpen is busy again, everyone preoccupied.

You walk in together, acting natural and you swear no one’s paying attention—until Morgan looks up from his desk with a slow, knowing grin. “Ten bucks says I’m right,” he mutters to JJ, who groans and rolls her eyes.

“Children,” Hotch calls from across the room, not even looking up from his file. “Back to work.” You slip into your chair. Spencer sits beside you, flipping open the nearest file like nothing happened. And maybe nothing did—except now you know exactly how good he sounds when he falls apart for you and he knows exactly what you look like when you’re coming on his cock.

You cross your legs under the desk and he glances at you sideways. You don’t speak. But the tension’s not gone. It’s just different now. And you’re not done fighting yet.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Nine

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, complex family dynamics, ableism.

Notes — This chapter has given me SUCH a hard time. Please enjoy it, I feel like I put my entire soul into it. Also… Fernando’s return is announced in the next chapter (everyone cheer).

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2020

Silverstone came around in the blink of an eye.

Amelia sat perched on the edge of the engineering desk, her legs swinging absently, trainers knocking gently against the metal drawer units below. Her gaze swept across Alex’s side of the garage, quick, focused, restless. She wasn’t here to be social. She was here to figure something out.

Something wasn’t right.

She’d been quietly monitoring it since Austria; since testing in Barcelona, even. The data, the footage, the telemetry. There were too many inconsistencies between Max’s car and Alex’s. And sure, she understood the baseline logic. Max was Max. His driving style demanded everything from the car and then some. His feedback loop with the team was honed to a science. But even so, there shouldn’t be this much of a disparity.

Not in identical machinery.

Not at this level.

Her brows pinched, eyes narrowing at the readout on the nearest screen. She hated the term “second driver” with a passion. It grated against every instinct she had. But watching Alex’s side of the garage felt like watching a different team operate altogether. Different priorities. Different urgency. It wasn’t malicious. Not outright. But it was subtle. It was systemic. And it was stupid.

A puff of frustration escaped her nose. She’d already brought up some of her theories to Adrian, offhanded and careful, like she was floating curiosities instead of suspicions. He hadn’t disagreed. Hadn’t confirmed anything either. But she could see it — how he was watching now, too.

Still, it was driving her crazy.

The way Max’s floor and rear suspension packages were being iterated on faster. The microscopic setup tweaks that were tailored to his style but never translated for Alex. The way team radio responses came faster, the tone of them just slightly more reactive. She could hear the difference because she listened for it. 

It wasn’t cheating. But it wasn’t fair either.

And it was messy. Amelia didn’t like messy.

A burst of compressed air hissed across the garage as a mechanic adjusted Alex’s front wing, and Amelia’s head jerked toward it instinctively, eyes narrowing again. Her fingers twitched against her tablet, the internal debate warring louder than the buzz of the pit crew.

She lifted her ear defenders from around her neck and settled them over her ears. All of the noise softened to a low hum.

She glanced over her shoulder and spotted Max on the far side of the pit lane, deep in conversation with Christian by the pit wall. Calm and focused. He always looked like that before qualifying. Grounded. Unshakable.

Alex, by contrast, looked tense. He stood near his engineer, shoulders drawn tight, brows pinched as he nodded along, but his eyes kept flicking to the floor. Amelia watched for a beat longer, her heart tugging faintly. She wanted to fix it, whatever it was, but there was only so much she could do.

She looked down at her trainers.

They were her usual white ones, a little scuffed from the garage floors, but dependable. Comfortable. Familiar. But now, right at the edge of the left sole, something new: a messy swipe of orange marker.

LN4.

Her chest did something funny when she saw it.

Lando had crashed in her hotel room again, something that had quietly become routine. He always had his own room, but more often than not, he ended up in her bed instead of his. She didn’t mind. Would never say a word about it.

He was a good hugger now. He’d figured it out, finally, exactly how she liked to be held. Firm and tight enough to feel anchored. He’d taken to wrapping around her like a human shield, heartbeat steady, breath soft against the back of her neck. She hadn’t slept so consistently well in years.

He was usually gone before she woke up.

That morning had been no different. She’d blinked awake to an empty bed, the faint smell of his cologne still clinging to the hotel bedsheets. But when she’d gone to pull her trainers on, there it was; bright orange ink catching her eye.

Initials. A number. A quiet claim.

She didn’t know whether to roll her eyes or smile.

So she did both.

— 

The McLaren garage had its usual pre-quali buzz. Max Fewtrell leaned against the back wall, wearing a team guest lanyard and a vaguely amused expression as he watched Lando loll around in his race suit. 

“Alright, you’re being weirdly calm,” Max said, eyeing him. “You’re never this chill before quali. What is this? Zen Norris?”

Lando didn’t even look up from the banana he was unwrapping. “Just had a good night’s sleep, mate.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. Let me guess. In someone else’s hotel room?”

Lando gave him a slow, infuriating grin, then shrugged. “Maybe.”

Max stared at him. “No. Oh fucking hell. You’re not…?”

Lando just bit into the banana.

“You are,” Max said, half-laughing. “You’re back with her?”

Lando shrugged. “I wouldn’t say ‘back with’ like that, since we were never together in the first place, but yeah. We’re...talking.”

“Right,” Max said, drawing the word out. “Talking. In her bed. At night. Sounds familiar.”

Lando shot him a look. “Don’t start, mate. I’m still pissed at you for telling me to bin her off in the first place. Worst mistake of my life.”

“I stand by what I said then,” Max said, folding his arms. “And now she works for Red Bull. The actual enemy. She's probably hardwiring your secrets into Verstappen’s car while you’re asleep.” He said, eyes narrowed. 

Lando rolled his eyes. “She literally tells me nothing technical. I tried a few weeks ago, asked her what they changed on the rear wing. She said ‘carbon things’ and then threw a tortilla at my face.”

Max laughed. “Okay, yeah, that’s… okay, that’s funny.”

Lando looked a little too smug. “Exactly. Mate, I know what I’m doing. She’s worth it, you know? Just wish I’d realised it sooner.”

“Oh, you definitely don’t know what you’re doing,” Max scoffed. “You’re back in your feels, acting like it’s not completely mad that your maybe-girlfriend works for a team that would pay to see you finish outside the points every Sunday.”

“She’s not just some Red Bull lackey,” Lando said sharply, shoulders tensing. “She’s Amelia. She’s a fucking genius, Max. That car? It’s hers as much as it is Max’s or Alex’s.”

Max gave him a dry look. “You do realise how insane you sound?”

“I don’t care,” Lando said, straightening. “She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. Yeah, I screwed it up before. But I’m not walking away from her again. Not ever.”

Max blinked. “Bit dramatic, mate.”

“Whatever,” Lando said, smirking. “You’re just bitter because I’ve a hot, genius in my bed and you’ve got a Twitch stream and a meal deal.”

“I brought you that Pret,” Max muttered.

“And I’m grateful,” Lando said, clapping him on the shoulder like a smug little shit. “But I’m also head over fucking heels, mate. So.”

Max groaned. “Jesus Christ. You’re unbearable.”

“Yup.” Lando tossed his banana peel perfectly into the bin. “Get used to it.”

Across the garage, an engineer called Lando over for a final briefing. As he jogged off, Max shook his head. “Mad bastard,” he muttered. “Completely lost the plot.”

— 

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor of the Red Bull garage, the harsh overhead lights casting stark shadows across the slick concrete. Her tablet rested beside her, darkened screen still smudged with notes and numbers from the race. Her yellow golf ball rolled slowly between her hands, back and forth, back and forth; rhythmic and grounding.

Silverstone had always felt like a second home. Growing up watching races here, dreaming about being a part of it. Now she was properly in it. Deep in the heart of Red Bull Racing, elbows-deep in data, decisions, and disappointment.

Max had salvaged something, as he always did. P2 wasn’t nothing. But the numbers didn’t lie. Mercedes were still faster, smoother, untouchable on the straights. And the tire degradation? She closed her eyes, jaw clenching slightly. It didn’t make sense. 

She could feel the quiet frustration that had hung over the garage all weekend. Engineers working longer hours. Adrian pacing more. Alex struggling to connect the car to the track. And her, Amelia, trying to play translator between machine and man, and still somehow coming up short.

Her fingers tightened painfully around the golf ball.

It wasn’t failure, not really. But it wasn’t a win either. And that unsettled something in her. She wanted better. She wanted cleaner gains. More decisive margins. Less almost and more perfect.

Her thoughts drifted to Max, to the way he’d found her after the debrief and muttered, “We’ll get them next week,” like it was a promise more than reassurance.

She dropped her head, staring at the tablet, teeth digging into the inside of her cheek. There had to be something.

And then—

It hit her like a flash.

She blinked, straightened, then scrambled to unlock the screen, fingers flying. Rear aero wake management. Micro-channel re-shaping on the rear floor edge. She muttered to herself as she typed. “Shift the outer wake—no, no, narrow it, and bleed the turbulence—”

Her heart kicked up. Her breath got shallow. The pressure in her chest gave way to something electric. Her hands fluttered before she even realised, wrists snapping, fingers stimming with giddy, instinctive rhythm as the idea built in her head. She scribbled on the screen with her stylus like it was oxygen. She was grinning, properly grinning.

She barely registered the noise of the paddock returning to life behind her.

A Sky Sports camera had swung past, catching a glimpse of her in the garage, tucked between tool cabinets and telemetry units, flapping hands and bright yellow golf ball balanced in her lap. The presenter spoke softly over the shot. “And there’s Amelia Brown. A quiet presence in the paddock so far, but proving to be a very hard worker indeed.”

In the Red Bull hospitality suite, Christian Horner glanced up at the screen, watching the feed with his usual half-interested expression. “Ah, there she is. Our shining example of disability-positive hiring.” It was offhand. Meant as a joke, maybe. But it hung awkward in the air.

Adrian didn’t laugh.

He turned his head slowly toward Christian, expression unreadable. “She’s the most promising technical mind I’ve worked with in a decade. And she is working with me on merit alone.” He said mildly, eyes still on the screen.

Christian blinked. “Right. Of course.”

Adrian sipped his tea. Said nothing more. But when he looked back to the TV, his gaze was thoughtful.

And in the garage, Amelia kept working, entirely unaware of the camera, the commentary, or the conversation she’d just ignited. Her mind was moving too fast now to care about anything else.

She’d found something. Something big.

And she couldn’t wait to show Adrian.

— 

Max found her sitting alone on the pit wall. 

She had her yellow golf ball in one hand, thumb rolling over its surface absently. The other held her tablet, still filled with drawings and annotations, now marked with scribbled arrows and half-formed formulas.

Max climbed up next to her with the casual ease of someone who did it a hundred times a year. “You solved the issue,” he said, legs dangling over the edge.

Amelia blinked, as if pulled out of her own thoughts. “It’s not solved,” she said automatically. “It’s a direction.”

“A good one,” Max replied. “Adrian was very happy when you showed him. I saw it on his face.”

She smiled at that, a flicker of pride showing before she quickly tucked it away. One hand rolled the golf ball. The other hand jolted, maybe spurred on by a burst of excitement. She didn’t notice she was doing it.

Max did.

He watched it for a moment, then leaned back on his hands. “You were doing that earlier. With your hands. They showed it on the live feed.”

She froze, just for a second.

Max didn’t sound judgmental. Just curious. But still, something knotted tight in her chest. The instinct came fast, automatic; hide it, clench her fists, smooth out the edges. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Pretend she was just like everyone else.

But then she remembered what Adrian had told her, calm and firm that day in the design office, looking at her without even a flicker of doubt.

Why should you ever have to hide the manifestations of your greatness?

So, instead of retreating, she let her hands speak the language her brain needed. 

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “It’s called a stim.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “A what?”

“A… like, a repetitive movement. Helps regulate my focus. Or calm me down. Or… sometimes just helps me think,” she said, gesturing with the ball. “Ah, my hands flap on their own. And the golf ball’s got the right weight. Tactile enough to keep my hands busy while my brain does its thing. Means something to me.”

Max nodded slowly, eyes on the horizon. “You always do it when you're excited about something?”

“Sometimes. Or anxious. Or overstimulated.” She shrugged. “I mask a lot. Most people don’t notice the physical stuff. But the ball helps. I notice that I swing or bounce my leg a lot, too, but people don’t notice that as much.” 

He was quiet for a long moment. “So, it’s part of the autism?”

She turned her head toward him, eyes narrowing. Not angry, just curious. “You saw my Twitter?” She was very open about her diagnosis there, sharing informational and up-to-date medical journals. 

“I read part of your interview with RaceTech Weekly,” he admitted. “You said it’s not something you hide, but not something you announce either.”

“Yeah, well…” she exhaled. “Some people get weird. Or patronising. Or make jokes.”

“Christian,” Max said knowingly, a darker tone in his voice.

Amelia smiled, a bit twisted. “Adrian is nice about it, though.”

“Good.” Max looked at her again. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed.”

She stared at him. “I’m not—” And then paused. “Okay. I am. A little. But I’m trying not to be.”

Max just gave a half-nod, like that was fair enough. “You don’t need to explain it to me,” he said, kicking his foot gently out into the air. “I just wanted to know what it was. You looked happy.”

She blinked. “I was.”

He nodded again. “Good.”

Eventually, she bumped her shoulder against his. It was barely more than a nudge, but for Amelia, it was a big deal; intentional, physical contact she initiated. She didn’t do that often. Almost never. “Thanks for not being a dick about it,” she told him.

Max smirked, eyes flicking down to where their shoulders had touched before he leaned back. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until I start asking to borrow the comfort golf ball during strategy meetings.”

“You’d lose it.” She sighed. 

“You’ll forgive me.” 

Amelia stared at him, dead serious. “No I wouldn’t.” 

—

It was late. Too late for anyone still at McLaren HQ except security and cleaning staff. 

Tracy stood across from him, arms folded, gaze cool and steady. She didn’t come to Woking often anymore, but something in Zak’s voice when he’d asked her to come by tonight had stopped her from saying no.

“You’re not sleeping,” Tracy said after a long beat. “You hardly even come home anymore.”

Zak rubbed both hands over his face, voice low. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Good,” she replied, sharp but not cruel. “She should be at the front of your mind. Just like she’s always at the front of mine.”

Zak let out a bitter laugh and leaned forward, elbows on his desk, head bowed. “It’s been five months, Trace. Five months of silence. She won’t reply to my texts. Doesn’t even open my emails. I tried to speak to her at Silverstone and she looked straight through me. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Tracy sighed and lowered herself into the seat across from him, her expression tight. “You didn’t lose her because of one bad conversation, Zak. You lost her because you took something from her; something you had no right to. You tried to control what wasn’t yours.”

He looked at her, pain written into the lines of his face.

“She could’ve sued you,” Tracy continued, quieter now but no less firm. “Do you even understand that? Millions, Zak. She would never do it, of course, because she’s still loyal, still stupidly kind when it comes to you, but that doesn’t make what you did any less wrong. You treated her brilliance like a family asset. Like it belonged to you because she’s your daughter.”Her voice cracked, not with emotion, but fury. “That’s not how this works. That’s not how she works.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Zak said hoarsely. “I didn’t realise—Christ, Trace.”

“You were blind to it,” Tracy said, her voice steady but cutting. “Everything she was doing to elevate that team; improving car performance, supporting the drivers, stabilising Lando’s garage dynamic. She wasn’t just useful, Zak. She was essential. And now you’ve lost her to Red Bull.”

Zak sneered, bitter. “God. I just—why them? I would’ve understood Mercedes, maybe. Even Ferrari.”

Tracy didn’t flinch. “She’s built her own space in that garage already. They obviously respect her there. She’s on her way to helping Max Verstappen fight for his first world title. She’s not just surviving, Zak. She’s thriving.”

“I know that,” Zak said, his voice small, still dark and bitter. “I’ve watched. I’ve seen the press. Adrian Newey can’t stop signing her praises. But, Trace, I wasn’t even proud. I was angry.” He paused. “I didn’t understand it. I don’t even recognise her anymore.”

Tracy sighed. “She spent years trying to get you to see her. Always trying to fit herself into a box, hoping that maybe things would finally change and you’d suddenly realise what was standing right in-front of you.” 

Zak looked down. His hands were clenched together, knuckles pale. “I miss her so much,” he whispered. “I miss her laugh. Her rants. Even that awful yellow water bottle.”

Tracy pursed her lips. “The water bottle is gone. She has a golf ball now. Still yellow.” 

He looked up at her quickly. “A golf ball?”

Tracy smiled sadly. Shrugged. “Probably from her and Lando’s first date. I’ve never asked, but…” 

Zak blinked. “He… They went on a date? He managed to get her to go to a golf course?” 

Tracy nodded. 

Zak closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he tried to pull himself together. “I just want a chance. One chance to tell her that I was wrong. That I see her now. That I’m proud of her. That I—”

Tracy leaned forward, her voice gentle but firm. “You have to let her come to you. Not the other way around. When has she ever responded well to being chased, hm?”

Zak blinked, fighting back the sting in his eyes. “Do you think she ever will, though? Come to me?”

Tracy stood, brushing a hand over his shoulder as she walked past. “She’s her father’s daughter. Stubborn. But eventually, something will happen, and your name will be the first one on her mind. Just… be patient. And come home, Zak. You need a shower.”

He watched her walk out, the soft click of her heels echoing in the stillness of the room. Then he turned back toward the window, staring out over the empty car bays and spotless garage beyond. The place that, in so many ways, had become his refuge; and his prison.

He could be patient. He could.

He stood up, grabbed his jacket, and followed her out. 

— 

iMessage — 20:03pm

Amelia I think we should go on a date.

Lando Norris No, no, no. Babe, no. I’m supposed to be the one to ask you on a date, not the other way around.

Amelia Why? You haven’t asked. I want to go on a date with you, so I asked.

Lando Norris Ok. I’m still paying. Doesn’t matter if you asked or not. I’ll plan it too.

Amelia Of course you are paying. Women don’t pay on dates.

Lando Norris Some ppl think they should 

Amelia Oh. Should I bring money then? 

Lando Norris No babe. Never.

Amelia :)

— 

He’d hired out an entire restaurant.

Fully staffed. Every table other than theirs empty.

It was insane. Completely over the top.

And yet, she couldn’t help but feel… warm about it.

Amelia ran her fingers along the smooth edge of her wine glass, her gaze drifting out the window as the sky darkened into soft shades of twilight. Normally, a full restaurant would have her on edge; the constant hum of conversations, the clatter of plates, the shuffle of waiters, the occasional laughter ringing too loudly in her ears. It always felt like too much. Too many sensory inputs, all at once.

Tonight, it was just them.

She glanced across the table at Lando, who was looking at her with that mischievous, bright-eyed expression. But there was something softer there too. A warmth, a genuine care she had come to expect from him.

"This is much better than golf," she said, trying to ease the tightness she felt in her chest. Her fingers tightened slightly around her wine glass, a small manifestation of her nerves. 

Lando stared at her for a moment, then laughed; a loud, free sound that made her heart skip a beat. "Yeah? I’m sorry I dragged you there. I won’t ever do it again, I promise." He had that usual teasing grin on his face, but there was softness in the way his eyes lingered on her.

Amelia shifted in her seat, glancing down at the menu in front of her. There were so many choices, so many different things to try, and the overwhelming amount of options made her stomach twist. Her mind started to race, analysing every single dish on the list, the flavours, the textures. Would they be too spicy? Too sweet? Would she like them or regret the choice? It felt like too much.

"I like the beach," she muttered, trying to shift focus. "And I like boats." But her thoughts kept circling back to the food. The choices were suffocating.

Lando seemed to notice the change in her, the tension creeping into her shoulders. "Boats, huh? So you don’t get sea sickness, then?” he teased, leaning forward a little, trying to pull her out of her head.

Amelia nodded absentmindedly, her mind still too loud. “Boats are just… private. Calm.“

He paused, studying her for a moment, before his voice softened. “If the options are too much, we don’t have to pick anything just yet. You’re here with me, we can go slow. The restaurant is ours until midnight. No pressure.”

She sucked in a breath. “I— I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice small. “I’ve never been here before. It’s nice, I just... I don’t know what I’ll like.”

Lando reached across the table, taking her hand and giving it a firm squeeze. “Well, after the amount of room service we’ve eaten recently, I think know what you like, and what you don’t. Want me to just order for you?”

Amelia blinked, startled by his offer. “What?”

He looked at her for a moment, his gaze softening. Then, without warning, he stood and walked around the table. Before she could react, he pulled her chair back, coaxing her to her feet. He guided her back to his side and gently settled her onto his lap. His left arm wrapped around her waist, secure but not too tight, pulling her closer. Amelia felt the tension drain from her body as she sank into him, her back resting against his chest.

“We can share, yeah? I’ll pick a few things, and we can try them together,” he murmured, his voice low and warm.

Amelia hesitated, her voice barely a whisper. “They’ll stare.”

She could feel her cheeks warming, the faint pressure of being so close to him in a public space, even if the restaurant was empty. But despite her discomfort, she didn’t want to move. His arm around her felt right, comforting in a way she hadn’t expected. It was perfect.

Lando rolled his eyes, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Let them.” 

NEXT CHAPTER

[catboybiologist]

Many billionaires in tech bros warn about the dangerous of AI. It's pretty obviously not because of any legitimate concern that AI will take over. But why do they keep saying stuff like this then? Why do we keep on having this still fear of some kind of singularity style event that leads to machine takeover?

The possibility of a self-sufficient AI taking over in our lifetimes is... Basically nothing, if I'm being honest. I'm not an expert by any means, I've used ai powered tools in my biology research, and I'm somewhat familiar with both the limits and possibility of what current models have to offer.

I'm starting to think that the reason why billionaires in particular try to prop this fear up is because it distracts from the actual danger of ai: the fact that billionaires and tech mega corporations have access to data, processing power, and proprietary algorithms to manipulate information on mass and control the flow of human behavior. To an extent, AI models are a black box. But the companies making them still have control over what inputs they receive for training and analysis, what kind of outputs they generate, and what they have access to. They're still code. Just some of the logic is built on statistics from large datasets instead of being manually coded.

The more billionaires make AI fear seem like a science fiction concept related to conciousness, the more they can absolve themselves in the eyes of public from this. The sheer scale of the large model statistics they're using, as well as the scope of surveillance that led to this point, are plain to see, and I think that the companies responsible are trying to play a big distraction game.

Hell, we can see this in the very use of the term artificial intelligence. Obviously, what we call artificial intelligence is nothing like science fiction style AI. Terms like large statistics, large models, and hell, even just machine learning are far less hyperbolic about what these models are actually doing.

I don't know if your average Middle class tech bro is actively perpetuating this same thing consciously, but I think the reason why it's such an attractive idea for them is because it subtly inflates their ego. By treating AI as a mystical act of the creation, as trending towards sapience or consciousness, if modern AI is just the infant form of something grand, they get to feel more important about their role in the course of society. Admitting the actual use and the actual power of current artificial intelligence means admitting to themselves that they have been a tool of mega corporations and billionaires, and that they are not actually a major player in human evolution. None of us are, but it's tech bro arrogance that insists they must be.

Do most tech bros think this way? Not really. Most are just complict neolibs that don't think too hard about the consequences of their actions. But for the subset that do actually think this way, this arrogance is pretty core to their thinking.

Obviously this isn't really something I can prove, this is just my suspicion from interacting with a fair number of techbros and people outside of CS alike.

[nasa]

LaRue Burbank, mathematician and computer, is just one of the many women who were instrumental to NASA missions.

4 Little Known Women Who Made Huge Contributions to NASA

Women have always played a significant role at NASA and its predecessor NACA, although for much of the agency’s history, they received neither the praise nor recognition that their contributions deserved. To celebrate Women’s History Month – and properly highlight some of the little-known women-led accomplishments of NASA’s early history – our archivists gathered the stories of four women whose work was critical to NASA’s success and paved the way for future generations.

LaRue Burbank: One of the Women Who Helped Land a Man on the Moon

LaRue Burbank was a trailblazing mathematician at NASA. Hired in 1954 at Langley Memorial Aeronautical Laboratory (now NASA’s Langley Research Center), she, like many other young women at NACA, the predecessor to NASA, had a bachelor's degree in mathematics. But unlike most, she also had a physics degree. For the next four years, she worked as a "human computer," conducting complex data analyses for engineers using calculators, slide rules, and other instruments. After NASA's founding, she continued this vital work for Project Mercury.

In 1962, she transferred to the newly established Manned Spacecraft Center (now NASA’s Johnson Space Center) in Houston, becoming one of the few female professionals and managers there.  Her expertise in electronics engineering led her to develop critical display systems used by flight controllers in Mission Control to monitor spacecraft during missions. Her work on the Apollo missions was vital to achieving President Kennedy's goal of landing a man on the Moon.

Eilene Galloway: How NASA became… NASA

Eilene Galloway wasn't a NASA employee, but she played a huge role in its very creation. In 1957, after the Soviet Union launched Sputnik, Senator Richard Russell Jr. called on Galloway, an expert on the Atomic Energy Act, to write a report on the U.S. response to the space race. Initially, legislators aimed to essentially re-write the Atomic Energy Act to handle the U.S. space goals. However, Galloway argued that the existing military framework wouldn't suffice – a new agency was needed to oversee both military and civilian aspects of space exploration. This included not just defense, but also meteorology, communications, and international cooperation.

Her work on the National Aeronautics and Space Act ensured NASA had the power to accomplish all these goals, without limitations from the Department of Defense or restrictions on international agreements. Galloway is even to thank for the name "National Aeronautics and Space Administration", as initially NASA was to be called “National Aeronautics and Space Agency” which was deemed to not carry enough weight and status for the wide-ranging role that NASA was to fill.

Barbara Scott: The “Star Trek Nerd” Who Led Our Understanding of the Stars

A self-described "Star Trek nerd," Barbara Scott's passion for space wasn't steered toward engineering by her guidance counselor. But that didn't stop her!  Fueled by her love of math and computer science, she landed at Goddard Spaceflight Center in 1977.  One of the first women working on flight software, Barbara's coding skills became instrumental on missions like the International Ultraviolet Explorer (IUE) and the Thermal Canister Experiment on the Space Shuttle's STS-3.  For the final decade of her impressive career, Scott managed the flight software for the iconic Hubble Space Telescope, a testament to her dedication to space exploration.

Dr. Claire Parkinson: An Early Pioneer in Climate Science Whose Work is Still Saving Lives

Dr. Claire Parkinson's love of math blossomed into a passion for climate science. Inspired by the Moon landing, and the fight for civil rights, she pursued a graduate degree in climatology.  In 1978, her talents landed her at Goddard, where she continued her research on sea ice modeling. But Parkinson's impact goes beyond theory.  She began analyzing satellite data, leading to a groundbreaking discovery: a decline in Arctic sea ice coverage between 1973 and 1987. This critical finding caught the attention of Senator Al Gore, highlighting the urgency of climate change.

Parkinson's leadership extended beyond research.  As Project Scientist for the Aqua satellite, she championed making its data freely available. This real-time information has benefitted countless projects, from wildfire management to weather forecasting, even aiding in monitoring the COVID-19 pandemic. Parkinson's dedication to understanding sea ice patterns and the impact of climate change continues to be a valuable resource for our planet.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space! 

[rebeccathenaturalist]

It's always good news when a rare native species rebounds from the brink of extinction. The Kirtland's warbler was once down to about two hundred individuals, but with conservation efforts the population is almost to five thousand. This is still a very small number, but it's a heartening change.

The warbler was removed from the U.S. Endangered Species List in 2019. While this may seem like a good thing, it means these birds have lost some of the legal protection that earned them breathing room to recover. It also highlights the very procedural, quantitative way in which government entities try to define whether a species or habitat is "safe" or not. It's not as though once the warbler was off the list its problem all disappeared. Plus there are many species that face extinction that have never been listed simply because the data hasn't been sufficient--or even existent--to prove the threat.

And it also reflects the reductionist view toward science that is still all too common. While restoration ecologists and other conservationists are well aware of the interconnectivity of an ecosystem and how it is more than the sum of its parts, the idea that a single species is endangered in isolation ignores the complex interplay between species and habitat, and how habitat loss is the single biggest cause of endangerment and extinction across the board.

So while we celebrate rising numbers of Kirtland's warblers, we also need to be focused on protecting and restoring the pine forests of the upper Midwest that they prefer in summer, and their wintering grounds in the Bahamas. Moreover, we need to appreciate the need of all the beings in these habitats to have their homes and feeding grounds protected in total, not just a single species here and there. The warbler is just a starting point, and its continued success relies on the health of the intricate systems of which it is a part.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Magic-Related Vocabulary

for your next poem/story

Amulet: An object worn, carried or placed to guard against negativity or other vibrations. A protective object.

Astral Projection: The practice of separating the consciousness from the physical body so that the former may move about unhindered by time, space or gravity.

Bane: A poison; that which destroys life. "Henbane" is poisonous to hens.

Banish: To drive away evil, negativity or spirits.

Beltane: An ancient folk-festival day observed by Witches that celebrates the fully blossomed spring. April 30 or May 1.

Censer: A vessel of metal or earthenware in which incense is burned. An incense burner.

Chaplet: A garland or wreath of flowers or leaves worn on the head, as in the chaplets given to classical Greek heroes as symbols of honor.

Clairvoyance: Literally "clear seeing." The ability to perceive facts, events and other data by other than the five "normal" senses, unaided by tools.

Curse: A concentration of negative and destructive energy, deliberately formed and directed toward a person, place or thing.

Divination: The art of finding things out through means other than the five senses, using tools such as tarot cards, crystal balls, and so on.

Enchant: "Sing to." Magically speaking, a procedure whereby herbs are aligned with your magical need prior to their use.

Evil Eye, The: Supposed glance capable of causing great harm or fear, once almost universally feared.

Fascination: The art of placing other people under one's power through sounds, gazes, colors, etc.

Hex: An evil spell; a curse.

Incubus: A male demon or spirit which was believed to sexually tempt and abuse women; the succubus was the corresponding female demon.

Infusion: An herbal tea.

Lughnasadh: An old harvest festival celebrated on August 1st or 2nd in Europe, reverencing the abundant (harvested) fruits of the Earth. It is still observed by Wicca.

Magic: The practice of causing needed change through the use of powers as yet undefined and unaccepted by science.

Magic Circle: A ritually-created circle (or sphere) that offers protection to the magician during magical rites.

Magician: A person of either sex who practices magic.

Magus: A magician.

Midsummer: The Summer Solstice, usually on or near June 21st, one of the Wiccan festival days and an excellent time to practice magic.

Pendulum: A tool of divination which consists of a heavy object suspended from a string or cord. The end of the cord is held between the thumb and forefinger; questions are asked and their answers divided by the movements of the pendulum.

Pentagram: A five-pointed star which has been used in magic for centuries. Highly symbolic, it is also a protective device.

Poppet: A small doll made of various substances to influence a person's fife. In herb magic, either a carved root or a cloth image stuffed with herbs. The use of poppets is known as "image magic."

Power Hand, The: The hand you write with; the dominant hand. This is a magically potent hand.

Samhain: An ancient festival day marking the beginning of winter. Also known as "Halloween" and All Hallows Eve. It is observed by Wicca with religious ceremonies.

Scry: To gaze into a pool of ink, fire, crystal ball, etc. to awaken and summon psychic powers.

Spell: A magical rite.

Talisman: An object worn or carried to attract a specific influence, such as love, luck, money, health; as opposed to an amulet which keeps forces from its bearer.

Wicca: A contemporary religion with spiritual roots in prehistory that worships the life-force of the universe as personified as a God and Goddess. It is sometimes erroneously referred to as "witchcraft."

Witch Bottle: A bottle or jar containing herbs, pins, shards of glass and other objects, designed to protect a person or area from evil and curses. Usually buried or placed in a window.

Witchcraft: The practice of natural magic, as that of herbs, stones, and candles. Spell-casting. Still used by some to refer to the religion of Wicca.

Wort: An old word meaning "herb." Mugwort preserves the term.

Excerpt from Cunningham's Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs More: Word Lists ⚜ Esoteric Vocabulary ⚜ On Magic