#historically not about the drivers themselves

[crowaroni]

apologizing in advance because once f1 starts again i will be graduating to kendrick level hating

[bogleech]

We met a really friendly cool lady from Argentina at our friend's house and she asked us if we had seen "THE ANIMAL" from her country, then she showed us photos of a capybara and kept referring to it that way like it's just The Generic Animal and that is SO true. She also told us all about the time a bunch of The Animals pissed off rich people, which I either overlooked or completely forgot about a couple years ago.

“That’s where the conflict started,” says Marcelo Canton, head of communications for the Nordelta Residents Association. The capybaras—known as “carpinchos” in Argentina—ate up lawns and massacred rose bushes. They caused traffic accidents, knocking delivery drivers from their bikes. Perhaps worst of all, for a country fiercely devoted to pets, the capybaras began to face off with dogs that confronted them on their new territory, causing injuries to both sides. “Dog owners were very upset,” Canton says. “Especially because here, the dogs are mostly French Bulldogs or other small dogs. They can’t defend themselves.”

In July, a group of residents went to the press, griping about a capybara “invasion” and calling for authorities to move the animals out to a nature reserve. The complaints triggered a huge backlash in both Argentine and international media. Viral posts on social media accused Nordeltans of hypocrisy, since their luxury neighborhood is built on the capybara’s historic wetland habitat, with some dubbing the animals “class warriors.” It didn’t help Nordelta’s case that capybaras are extremely cute, with goofy rectangular heads and narrow eyes that make them look permanently sleepy." All this time I've only seen memes about them being the most chill and friendly of all creatures but really The Animal will fuck up your lawn and then your little dog too :)

[vro0m]

the whole thing around how drivers will race even when injured and/or sick for the sake of their teams and the championships rlly gives me the ick honestly, especially bc of the message it's sending to kids in junior series, which is that they should be willing to sacrifice their health and wellbeing if it means they go up in the standings or whatever. f1 historically being a dangerous sport probably hasn't helped this idea, esp taking into account the glorification of things like niki coming back after his accident in '76 to keep on fighting for the wdc and senna's death, but the fact that it's persisted this long honestly can have some really dangerous implications. yes, these injured drivers go onto win races and championships (niki only losing the wdc at the last race in '76, max winning races and eventually the wdc 2021 despite blurry vision following silverstone, lewis winning formula a with a broken wrist (at 15 too which is properly mind boggling honestly), lewis getting pole in german 2019 despite having a 40ºC fever, carlos winning australia after appendicitis, oscar winning hungary with a broken rib) but imo it's setting a borderline dangerous precedent for other drivers and kids coming up through the junior formulas.

What annoys me about it is that the athletes themselves can't say no, in this sport or any other. They can't and won't say no because they've been taught to not listen to their bodies and to push through and sometimes that they are weak if they need a break* and that the chance they have to be where they are is fleeting and they need to be on top all day every single day to not lose it. So they won't say no.

Remember Qatar 23? Some of these drivers reported losing vision in the corners due to the heat and the effort and they didn't stop. Ocon threw up in his helmet twice and he didn't stop. George said he almost passed out before the end of the race. He didn't stop. Only Sargeant stopped.

Noah Lyles ran the 200m with covid and he might or might not have permanent damage from doing so. And he still went.

What all of them and the ones you cited have in common, is that nobody around them said no for them. No one in Lyles entourage said man that's a bad idea. His girlfriend spent the night turning him around in his bed because of how much he coughed and she didn't say maybe you shouldn't go. No one said maybe it's a bad idea even though he had severe asthma in his childhood. Carlos was in horrible pain from appendicitis and no one told him maybe sit this one out. They gave him painkillers and sent him back out. Oscar had a broken rib and they sat him in the car all the same.

And sure these are adults, not puppets, not victims, they are responsible for themselves as adults and they do have some responsibility in these decisions. But truly even if they wanted to, which I'm not convinced they do, these people can't say no. The people around them should say no for them. They won't because they're greedy. The athletes don't see it because they've been primed not to see it and/or they also are greedy (for money or other things). No one is there to say no. I'm betting if people (doctors) are saying no, they are ignored. Someone needs to say no.

*btw remember that Lewis, who did not race in Qatar 23 because of the contact with George, said a whole thing about how that's just how it is and if the drivers suffered they had to train more because they weren't prepared enough. they are all part of this culture and very few seem to even notice it.

[blurredcolour]

Born To Be Yours

[One-shot | Sequel to We'll Meet Again]

Eugene Roe x Nurse!Female Reader

Despite the end of the war in Europe, violence still finds its way to the men of Easy company. Thankfully, Eugene knows just where to find you to get them help.

Warnings: Language, Weapons, Canon Typical Violence, Smoking, Treatment of Wounds, Medical Procedures, Hospital Settings, Questionably Written Cajun Accent, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [Kissing, Necking, Dry Humping] - 18+ ONLY

Author’s Note: Slight warning - the events of this fic are centered around the shooting of Sergeant Charles E Grant. The title of this fic is based off the song 'Yours' by Vera Lynn. For your reference, the Cajun pronunciation of cher, Eugene's term of endearment for the reader, is 'sha.' Just to help you really imagine it in your head. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the HBO series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 3887

-------------------------

This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to be happening. Not here in Austria after the surrender of the German army. Not today, the anniversary of D-Day. And yet here Eugene sat, balanced over a stretcher bearing a motionless Grant, holding an IV of blood above his head as Speirs sped down the road toward Saalfelden where the 47th Field Hospital was set up on the edge of town. Talbert rode in the front seat, frequently glancing back at them over his shoulder.

It was a miracle Grant was still breathing after receiving the headwound, continued to breathe through the frantic bandaging and loading onto Speirs’ jeep.

“Where’s the nearest surgeon?” The Captain had barked and Gene had answered easily, known it immediately, because the nearest surgeon was with you.

After parting ways in Titz, following that very eventful Easter Sunday, your hospital had stayed precisely where it was intended to be – twenty-five kilometers behind the line as they advanced across Germany. You had surprised Eugene by sending your next letter not by post, but in the pocket of an ambulance driver who had been all too happy to receive a pack of smokes from you for his trouble. Your ingenuity had opened his eyes, and he’d sent his own reply back two days later, postage paid with chocolate from his rations.

Being able to write one another without the censors having a say, to share every detail of your daily lives without fear of the letter going missing – as long as you each chose a trustworthy deliveryman of course – was a relief after all the delays in communication the pair of you had previously endured. Eugene was admittedly disheartened when he learned that your station in Austria would be in Saalfelden with the majority of the 101st Airborne while Easy and the rest of 2nd Battalion found themselves a further seventeen kilometers down the road in Zell Am See.

There remained a remarkable number of things for him to do, and the lack of ambulance traffic, while a blessing, severely impeded your correspondence once more. In short, Eugene was feeling awfully guilty about the fact that he had not managed to visit you since the war in Europe had ended. As the jeep pulled up outside the requisitioned gymnasium that had been turned into the 47th Field Hospital, he was not certain if he hoped you were there or not.

He jumped off the back of the vehicle as Speirs and Talbert grabbed each end of the stretcher and the three of them rushed toward the building. Eugene hurried a few steps ahead to pull the door open, wincing a little as Speirs shouldered it open fully, sending into the wall with a ‘bang.��� There was a scurry of footsteps from down a hallway to the right before you stepped into view, clad in your white and brown striped hospital dress, a brown cardigan over top with the sleeves pushed up to your elbows. Concern etched your features.

“Follow me.” You said quickly, rushing to pull open the next door into the gymnasium itself. “On the table right there please, sir.” You gestured to a makeshift exam table built of filing cabinets and a cot.

“Chief Nurse?” A young woman poked her head out from behind a privacy screen and Eugene nearly tripped over his own feet.

Last he’d heard you were Assistant Chief Nurse, promoted after your natural leadership of the group of nurses during your nine hours of capture. You’d gone and gotten yourself promoted again. He fought the urge to grin at you proudly as they carefully set Grant down as instructed.

“Shirley, go fetch Dr. Brock from his office immediately.”

“We need a surgeon.” Speirs rasped and Eugene watched the girl halt her progress across the room and look back to you questioningly.

“Dr. Randall then, quickly.” You amended, shifting to begin triage on the patient by checking his vitals as Speirs took Grant’s hand in his tightly.

Shirley fled the room, returning in less than a minute with a dark-haired man wearing a white coat in tow – surely Dr. Randall. A cigarette hung for his lips as he looked to Eugene for the hand off.

“Shot in the head with a pistol, maybe twenty minutes ago? Bandaged and given blood by IV.”

He saw Shirley hand you a chart out of the corner of his eye and you quickly noted these things along with the vitals you’d been taking when the surgeon had walked in. Dr. Randall leaned down to lift the bandages, inspecting Grant’s wound.

“Jesus.” He muttered.

“What?” Speirs asked, looking to him quickly.

“He’s not gonna make it.” Dr. Randall said, taking a slow drag on his cigarette.

“Ya can’t operate on him?” Eugene asked incredulously. This man was a surgeon, this was his job.

“Not me. You’d need a brain surgeon. And even if you had one, I don’t think there’s any hope.” Dr. Randall rubbed at his eyes, obviously just as worn out from the endless number of casualties he’d born witness to, before walking off.

Eugene’s eyes slid to meet yours where you remained next to the spot recently vacated by Dr. Randall; felt his throat clench painfully at the look of deep sympathy you were sending him.

Speirs took a breath and turned to Talbert, breaking the stunned silence that had fallen over the group. “You find the shooter, I want him alive.” He pointed at him for emphasis before turning back to Eugene. “Come on help me.”

“What’re you doing?” Talbert asked, grabbing the end of the stretcher.

“We’re gonna go find a brain surgeon!” Speirs declared before they were off and running back towards the door.

“There’s a German hospital further into town, follow this road for five blocks then hang a left.” You spoke quickly, hurrying to hold open the doors to ease their progress back to the jeep.

“Thank ya, Ma’am.” Eugene nodded quickly, ducking slightly as it had begun to lightly rain while they were inside.

“Take care.” Your voice shook a little and Eugene looked back to you once he’d resumed his perch on the back of the jeep, watching you wrap your cardigan tighter around yourself as you stood in the rain, staring at him intently until the vehicle jerked into motion as Speirs took off in the direction you had instructed.

The hospital was easy enough to find, thanks to your directions, and Talbert secured another jeep there to carry out Speirs’ orders to find the shooter. The brain surgeon was not currently on duty, but Speirs was undeterred and demanded his home address, from which he fetched him out of bed to operate immediately.

“It will take several hours.” The German surgeon had warned them when Speirs had asked where the waiting room was.

“We’ll wait.” He had replied flatly, and Eugene had followed after him as a nurse led them into an empty room filled with worn chairs and a few side tables with outdated German periodicals.

Eugene watched Speirs sink into one of the chairs while he found himself unable to sit down, wandering the perimeter of the room quietly, mind turning over all manner of things, but always coming back to how reluctant you had looked to see him go. The guilt within him had multiplied astronomically – he had been a fool to not rush to see you the instant he could, and now your first interaction since Easter was purely professional and surely terrifying. Precisely why he had been so very reluctant to admit his feelings to you in the first place.

“Doc, if you’re not going to sit down, go talk to that pretty Chief Nurse, would you?” He muttered, pulling the garrison cap from his hair.

Eugene’s head whipped up to look at his commanding officer in shock. Shock at the fact that Speirs had had the wherewithal to notice the looks you had been exchanging over Grant’s prone form. Shock that he was allowing him the liberty to visit you. Pure shock.

“Otherwise, it’s going to be a very long couple of hours.” There was a dangerous edge to the man’s voice that made Eugene swallow nervously and nod sharply.

“Yes sir, I’ll be back in a few hou’s then, sir.” He moved to slip out of the waiting room.

“Be careful out there, Doc.” Came Speirs’ parting command and Eugene nodded once more before heading out into the street, thankful that the blackout was no longer in effect and he had the assistance of streetlights to retrace his steps back to the Field Hospital.

He made a much quieter entrance this time, finding the nurse, Shirley, at the desk near the door in the gym.

“Oh, you’re the medic from earlier – how is your man?” She asked in a hushed voice as she stood.

“In surgery with a German brain surgeon now…I was wonderin’ if I migh’ speak ta you’ Chief Nurse?” He tilted his head, and she nodded quickly leading him down the hall to an unassuming office door.

“She’s still here, working late again.” She laughed softly and knocked.

“Thank ya, Ma’am.” He nodded as she nodded in return before heading back into the gym as your door swung inward.

“Gene…” You breathed in surprise, peering into the hallway as if to confirm he was truly alone.

“Cher…” He murmured in response, tremor in his own voice this time, and your fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulling him into the moderately sized office.

Your arms pulled him into a tight embrace as you nudged the door shut with your foot. He buried his face into your hair, fingers curling into the knit of your cardigan against your back.

“I’m right here, Gene.” You sighed soothingly, arms holding him so tightly, so warmly, Eugene was convinced you might actually be able to fuse his broken pieces back together. To make him feel whole again.

“Merci, cher.” He managed to find his voice after a moment, pulling back slightly only to press his lips to yours tightly in a physical expression of his gratitude.

Eugene felt the tremble that rolled through your body in response, his hands gripping you tighter as your fingers wended their way into his hair making him shudder in return. There was something about your touch tonight that felt like he was playing with fire, your entire presence loaded with explosive charge that could set him off at any moment. He pulled his lips back quickly before he did something wildly inappropriate in your office and panted against your mouth.

“M’sorry I haven’ come ta visit ya.”

Your response was a breathless laugh that made him bite the inside of his cheek.

“I’ve barely left this office. I’m beginning to think this promotion was a curse disguised as a blessing.” You smirked and stole one more kiss from his lips before straightening to look over his face warmly.

“It’s late, and I know ya don’ work nigh’s no mo’e…” He tried to keep the admonishing tone in his voice light, but he was admittedly upset you were working after midnight, something that even he was aware was unusual for a Chief Nurse.

“You know too much, Gene.” Your fingers smoothed his hair gently, restoring order to the strands you had put into disarray, a fond smile stretching his lips as he truly adored hearing you call him ‘Gene.’

His heart had nearly stopped when it had appeared in your letters but to hear it leave your lips was heaven itself.

“Let me walk ya home, tha man who did tha’ is still out the’e.”

He watched your eyes widen before you frowned deeply, shaking your head in dismay. “Did you find the hospital?”

“German brain surgeon’s operatin’ now…”

You took a slow breath before nodding. “I usually have an MP escort me, are you sure you don’t have to get back?”

He shook his head. “Grant’ll be in surgery a few hou’s longah. Cap’n Speirs won’ leave ‘till it’s ovah. Told me ta ‘go talk to that pretty Chief Nurse’ if I wouldn’t sit still.” Gene smirked ruefully and you blinked rapidly before biting your lip.

“Perhaps we have not been nearly as subtle as we thought, Gene…”

He laughed softly under his breath as he watched you turn to collect your things, sliding a small utility bag over your shoulder before turning out the desk light. The desk itself was still covered in stacks of files and he couldn’t help but frown as it seemed that your late nights had barely made a dent in the work your new position had foisted upon you.

“Wait here.” You said once you’d locked your office door and walked a little further down the hall to knock on another door.

He could barely make out another man’s voice, it didn’t sound like Dr. Randall, so presumably Dr. Brock, before you swung by the desk in the gymnasium to wish Shirley a good night. One last stop at the MP office to the left of the entrance where you informed your usual escort you had someone to walk you home before the pair of you were able to step out into the damp night. Thankfully, the rain had stopped falling but the puddles on the ground were plentiful as Eugene offered his arm. He could not help his fond smile as you took it without hesitation, hugging his elbow close as you walked side-by-side.

“I’m quite close to the hospital actually.” You gestured down the road and he nodded, turning that way.

“Tha’s how ya knew…”

Your soft laugh made his stomach quiver slightly though he did not miss the yawn you tried to smother.

“Ya been workin’ late a lot, cher?” He prompted softly, vigilant to your surroundings but so far, the streets were quiet.

“Mm.” You nodded slowly before sighing. “Seems the Chief Nurse before me was not such a fan of paperwork. Maude was a fantastic leader, we’re lucky to have her as the Assistant Director of Austria base, but if I had known what was awaiting me in that office…well I’d probably have asked to help her more when I was her assistant.”

He felt you tug on his arm and looked down to you quickly to see you pointing across the street to a modest apartment building.

“We’re quartered here.”

Eugene nodded and led you across the street as you fished for the keys in your bag. He couldn’t help but notice that you were in fact only a few blocks from the German hospital where Grant was still undergoing surgery. He said another silent prayer to guide the hands of the surgeon to success as you led him up to the building entrance.

A pair of sharp cries cut through the night, making the both of you freeze briefly.

“Hey!”

“Stop right there!”

The voices were still a block or so away, but belonged to men that Eugene knew a well as his own family.

“Inside cher, now.” He said quickly, pulling you toward the building.

“Second floor.” You uttered quickly and he pushed you up the stairs front of him, hands on your hips as he could hear the voices of Talbert and Malarkey growing closer, accompanied by footsteps splashing through puddles and the rumble of a jeep engine close behind.

You stopped at an apartment door and Eugene noted your struggle to line the key with the deadbolt, gently but firmly taking it from you to unlock the door and push you inside. He was quick to close and lock the door behind him, wanting you nowhere near the drunken madman who had already killed at least two people tonight. He heard you take a breath as you turned back toward him and he gently covered your mouth with his palm, shushing you softly as he listened for further noises from the street below.

They sounded as if they were right outside, their voices rising up through the stairwell as his wide eyes bored directly into yours.

“Yeah, that’s him!”

“Get in the jeep you son of a bitch.”

The sound of the engine faded off into the night and Eugene waited a full minute before lowering his hand from your mouth, the only sound remaining being the pounding of his heart in his ears. He heard you suck in a breath, the only warning he was afforded before your lips collided with his. He stumbled slightly, startled a moment, before the adrenaline in his veins was transformed into white hot desire. His hands clutched at your lower back, pulling you tightly against him as he blindly stumbled toward the doorway he had glimpsed upon entering your apartment.

He felt your body impact with something behind you and pulled back from your lips quickly to see he had backed you into the kitchen table. He felt you rise up onto your toes, seemingly intent on sitting on the tabletop and his hands quickly seized your hips, aiding you in your efforts by hoisting you the last bit of distance. He could not help the smirk that graced his features as you gasped at his strength; hard-won through years of training and carrying wounded from the battlefield. His mouth quickly returned to yours, shuddering as your tongue met his eagerly, your fingers once more burrowing into his hair.

Eugene’s lungs began to ache from a lack of oxygen and he reluctantly pulled back from your lips only to begin trailing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your throat. Your shaky exhale filled his ears as your fingers began to tug at the buttons of his OD jacket, sending his own in search of the same on your cardigan. As he pushed the fabric out of the way, he slid his hands along your sides, sucking at the hollow of your throat, exhaling hotly against your skin as you parted your legs for him.

“Cher…” He rasped against your skin, gulping at the whimper that fell from your lips as he stepped closer, nestling between your thighs.

Your body felt so hot against him, even through his ODs and wool trousers, he was helpless not to press as tightly to you as possible, not even leaving a hairsbreadth of space. Your fingers curled into the front of his wool shirt, hips bucking against his slightly as you whimpered again.

“Gene!” Your gasped and he kissed you fiercely as his lower abdomen grew heavy with arousal, blood rushing to his already hardening length as he rutted against you obligingly.

The moan that rattled from your throat into his mouth had his head swimming, his baser instincts immediately taking over, demanding he do anything and everything to draw that sound from you again and again. His hands shifted to grip your thighs, pulling your body even tighter to his as he continued to move against you, delighting in your repeated cries of pleasure which he devoured hungrily. He barely noticed your persistence against the buttons of his uniform shirt until he felt your hands sliding around his torso with only the thin barrier of his undershirt separating your skin, a groan falling from his lips as he tore them from yours.

“Merde.” He hissed, screwing his eyes shut against the salaciously delicious friction between your bodies.

“Mm! I know that one…” You giggled breathily against his neck before your lips were on his skin, making his hips rock sharply against yours.

“Feel so good, cher.” He groaned again, hands shifting beneath the hem of your dress, beneath the hem of your slip, to find the bare skin of your thighs. Quite possibly the softest thing he’d ever touched.

“Yes, Gene.” You whined against his kiss-dampened skin. “Don’t stop.”

He grunted in agreement, fingers tracing higher to grip your hips, increasing the friction yet again as he rutted his fully hard cock against your underwear. The moan that fell from your lips contained an almost anguished tone and he had to grit his teeth against the desire to climax at just the sound of it. Your fingers were digging into his back through the cotton of his undershirt, hips echoing every motion of his as his fingers delved past the edge of your underwear to curl into the soft flesh of your buttocks.

“Oh god Gene I’m…” You panted, head rolling back, and he nodded vigorously, eyes latching onto your face, desperate to watch you fall apart in his arms.

Eugene had long been convinced that you could do everything with grace, and you once again proved his assumption correct as your eyelashes fluttered against your cheeks, your mouth falling open to emit a soft wail of pure ecstasy. Burying his face against your neck, he cursed harshly as his hips bucked sharply, all sense of rhythm and control abandoning him as his orgasm immediately overtook him. Sliding one hand out from beneath your skirt to brace against the table lest he collapse onto you, he smiled sheepishly as you grinned up at him, your lower lip caught beneath your teeth.

“Sorry, Gene…” You murmured, running your hands along his back soothingly, your chests brushing against one another as you both struggled to catch your breath.

He shook his head quickly and then tensed. “Do ya….are ya the only one billeted in he’e?” He glanced back toward the hallway, suddenly aware of how much noise the pair of you had made.

Your bright peal of laughter caught his attention, and he turned back to you quickly.

“You ask me that now, Gene?!” You teased, gripping the back his neck to pull him down for a lazy kiss as he huffed a laugh against your lips in reply. “No, just me. Chief Nurse perk.”

He relaxed with a nod, straightening slowly as his legs finally felt like solid muscle and bone once more.

“The washroom is just down the hall if you wa–”

“Be my wife.” The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them.

He had intended to make more of a spectacle of it. Hell, he had intended to have a ring to put on your finger. But the way you were looking up at him now with glossy eyes still hazy with pleasure, crinkled at the corners as you smiled his favorite smile to date – he was helpless to hold them back.

Eugene held his breath as he watched your eyes widen, your mouth drop open, as his unexpected statement hung in the air.

“Are you…proposing to me Eugene Roe?” You exhaled and he gulped roughly.

“I understand if ya don’ wanna marry me, I still have ta go ta tha Pacific an’…”

“How could I say no, Gene, when I was born to be yours.” You eyed him softly but there was something about your words, and the way your lips were twitching with mirth, that tugged at the back of his brain.

“Cher are ya quotin’ Vera Lynn again?” He huffed and grimaced playfully at your answering laugh, yet felt his heart begin to beat double time as your hands cupped his cheeks and your expression grew serious.

“Eugene Roe, I would love to be your wife.” You nodded firmly and sealed your acceptance with a firm kiss that made his heart soar.

-------------------------

Band of Brothers Masterlist

Tag list: @ronsparky, @fuckoffthanos, @bcon24, @phyllisthefirst, @footprintsinthesxnd, @she-wolf09231982

[kirbyluvr63]

need f1 fanfic recs

im SO fucking glad you asked!

im gonna give you some of my favs here and youll kinda notice a pattern, i guess! im about to expose my whole psyche in front of you.

first, one of my favorite ships is maxiel! but i particularly love anything that explores daniel's character specifically, so my first rec is an entry on Daniel Ricciardo's Internalized Homophobia Fic Fest!

heart's a mess by nunnit - just a great character study of internalized homophobia and trying to no-homo your way out of your own life until you lose the one guy you really loved. warning: there's a bittersweet ending! ships: Jenson Button/Daniel Ricciardo; Cyril Abiteboul/Daniel Ricciardo; Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen; Daniel Ricciardo/Blake Friend; Daniel Ricciardo/OMC

Montreal Bounds by ellipsis99 - this one has a happy ending! daniel's in a complicated relationship with a guy who has a girlfriend and max makes him reconsider a bunch of stuff. ships: Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen; Daniel Ricciardo/Scotty James; (brief Max Verstappen/Pierre Gasly)

pale green things by yekoc - historical fiction set during the tulip fever where jos is a rich tulip trader that commissions daniel to paint a portrait of max for his fiancee. yekoc is a GREAT author, i recommend anything by them! ships: Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen

glory, from a high rise by yekoc - speaking of, another BANGER from yekoc. daniel works at a bar and max is a neurotic alcoholic office worker who's also horny as all hell. there's some commitment issues involved as well. it's perfect. ships: Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen

honorable mentions:

a body wishes to be held and held by CamilleDuDemon

All We Knew of Home by LoveLeah

mon voisin by kitversuskat

now, my second favorite ship, my actual favorite drivers on the grid and the ones i cheer for: galex! <3

table in the back by crescenteluce - if you love miscommunication you'll love this one, the dialogue is so precise like you can clearly see how one would misinterpret what the other is saying and at the same time you get why the other person didn't even realize a misunderstanding happened aaaaaaarrrrgghhhh it's a bit infuriating too but so so good. ships: George Russell/Alex Albon

footnote in someone else's happiness by finedae - in this one george and alex kind of have a fucked up relationship... they break up so george can date women and fit in the box expected of him, but stays in touch with alex and alex has to, as the author put it themselves, keep things real. ships: George Russell/Alex Albon

ode to a conversation stuck in your throat by prettyrotten - this ones also crazy good and revolves around miscommunication.. i guess this is my favorite trope for them for some reason. george humiliates himself to keep his relationship with alex who just decides how george feels and makes things shitty for everyone. must warn you that i almost cried with this one, very angsty, but with a happy ending! ships: George Russell/Alex Albon

honorable mentions:

take care of you (take care of me) by ginnydear

Strike a Pose by amphibiangeorgerussell

carry you home (orphan work)

another ship that i adore is charlos! their dynamic is very interesting to me... between them and between ferrari and also i just like carlos and want to study him under a microscope. can't wait to find out how his chemistry will play out with alex once they're teammates tbh

In for a penny, in for a pound by chiliconcarlos - this one's the quintessential charlos fic; a required reading, if you will. charles gets drunk and hires an escort to accompany him at a wedding so he doesn't show up alone in front of his ex. he thinks he hired a female escort, but then carlos shows up and... the rest is history. just a very very good fic. ships: Carlos Sainz Jr/Charles Leclerc

the same as all those men by almondmilkk - idk about you but i'm obsessed with cowboys and this is THE cowboy au... carlos has a lot of repressed feelings and internalized homophobia and charles just doesn't give a fuck anymore, it's glorious. ships: Carlos Sainz Jr/Charles Leclerc

my blood is singing with your voice (the saints can't help me now) by choripan - if you like catholic guilt, this one's for you! there's a lot of religious imagery in this one and it's just... chef's kiss. charles and carlos meet at an abandoned church while on vacation at mallorca with their respective families. ships: Carlos Sainz Jr/Charles Leclerc

honorable mentions:

semiotic study by linearity

says he's gonna teach me just what fast is by foggystars

can't sleep 'til I feel your touch by chiliconcarlos

and now.... for my most deranged ship: george and lance. "WTF??" you may ask, and i say "don't knock it till you try it!" think of it this way: george is stuck up and hates himself a little and lance is just there and doesn't give a fuck and is the pillowest of princesses. unfortunately few see the vision so there isn't much, but i can't recommend enough Lesson Learned by bottomtxt who's also one of my favorite fanartist here on tumblr and the one who opened my eyes to this AMAZING ship dynamic! finger trap by rivalism is my other recommendation for this criminally underrated ship!

and this is it! i hope you'll enjoy it

ps.: sorry for taking a while but as you can see i was taking this very seriously and i had some college stuff to get done at the same time etc etc... feel free to keep talking to be about it, tho :)

[theemporium]

🐈‍⬛ i don’t have a specific request but I can’t get the phrase “don’t hex and drive” out of my head. maybe driver reader who’s witchy and starts cursing anyone who’s rude to her boys right before a race sksjsks

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

“What a bunch of little c—”

“Amor, it’s fine.”

You snapped your head around, your eyes narrowing at your boyfriend sitting on the couch. “No, Carlos. No, it’s not.” 

He sighed. “No, but I need you to calm down before you do something stupid.” 

You almost wanted to scoff at him. 

It was ridiculous. It was ridiculous that such a historical and iconic team could make Formula Two teams and lower leagues look like saints. It was ridiculous that you had to watch your boys suffer through mistakes and situations that weren’t their fault. It was ridiculous that just when you thought Ferrari couldn’t fuck up anymore, they always seemed to find a way.

And it was ridiculous the way your boys had been conditioned by their own team to deal with it. 

And maybe you should have been glad that such a fierce competitor was no longer such, but you couldn’t care less about that when it was the loves of your life who were suffering. You didn’t care if it made your races easier. You didn’t care when it was chipping away at the men you love and making them shells of who they were at the start of the reason. 

“They need to get a grip of themselves,” you said bluntly, your brows furrowed together as you glared at the prancing horse logo on the wall of Charles’ driver room.

“Yes, but Carlos is right,” Charles said as he reached his arm out to tug you closer, to pull you down on the couch that both boys were currently sitting on. He nuzzled you to sit between them, squished between both Ferrari drivers who just looked exhausted. “When you get angry, you don’t think clearly.”

“I’m thinking very clearly right now,” you retorted as you crossed your arms over your chest with a huff. “And what I’m thinking is that everyone on that pit wall can enjoy my foot up their—”

“And there she is,” Carlos murmured, though his tone was light-hearted as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and tucked you into his side. “We don’t need you fighting our battles, amor.” 

“I know,” you sighed deeply.

“We will sort this out with the team,” he added. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumbled. 

“So no magic, okay?” 

You paused.

“Cherie,” Charles muttered as you continued to avoid both their stares. “No hexing and driving, remember?”

“But—”

“No magic. We can deal with the grid penalties on our own,” Charles told you in a softer voice. And you believed them. You knew what your boys were capable of, but your lack of faith resided with the team rather than them.

“How about a teeny hex?” You bargained as you looked between them. “Nothing big or serious, it will be harmless.”

Neither Charles nor Carlos looked convinced. 

“Something like…if they fuck up either of your races today, they will have clown noses stuck to their faces for a week?” You suggested, watching the way Charles had to press his lips together to withhold his giggles.

“Mi amor,” Carlos scolded softly but you could see the smile on his face.

“Please?” You murmured, giving the boys your puppy dog eyes that you knew they wouldn’t be able to resist. “If you won’t let me spell the cars with good luck, at least let me do this.” 

The boys shared a look with each other, a few beats of silence passing between you three before Carlos spoke.

“Fine—”

“Yes!” You grinned.

“But nothing more,” Carlos quickly added, shooting you a look. “And this is the only time.” 

“Promise,” you said with a smile on your face that didn’t reassure Carlos in the slightest, but he knew there was no stopping you when it came to defending them. 

“Thank you for caring,” he added in a softer voice.

“Always,” you said as you reached your hands out, taking each of their hands in your own as you intertwined your fingers. “I’ll always defend you both. After all, I like seeing you on the podium with me.”

“In second and third,” Charles commented with a snort.

You shrugged. “I like the view from up on the top spot, you can’t blame me.” 

“If you wanted to look down at us, you just had to ask for us to get on our knees, mi amor,” Carlos commented, grinning a little himself when he watched a blush spread across your cheeks. 

“What was that, Christian? You need me for data review? Okay!” You announced suddenly as you scrambled to get up from the couch, your body flushing at his words and the boys laughing as they tried to pull you back down.

.

[ranticore]

so ive been meaning to explain more about ironwall than the lil hints u get from that one story i posted a while back but essentially it's a city that grew out of the necessity of making a place for people with monstrous or non-standard anatomy. it grew from a few alehouses with double-high doors into an industrial city in the 1700s, one which remained largely independent of the nation around it by virtue of being essentially "worthless" to the kingdom. it was ruled by a self-appointed Protector who was supposedly chosen by council vote at regular intervals but we'll get into that

So due to being the only place with accessible infrastructure for centaurs (of all animal types), it became a major population centre and, of course, with no alternatives and a rapidly depleting countryside due to population growth and farmers/peasants being unable to support themselves on their land anymore, Ironwall became something of a prison, too. Where else could anyone go? Ironwall in the 1800s was known to be a deeply corrupt cesspit built on the exploitation of citizens who had nowhere else to go. The council did not allow non-landowners to vote in elections resulting in a ruling class of landlords only voting in their own interests and a strongly stratified society. All because the majority-human settlements elsewhere were not obligated to build suitable housing or accommodations, and some would actively work to avoid such accommodations, like entire streets of houses where access is by steep flights of stairs, or houses on stilts in smaller villages etc. They had heard stories of how awful it was to live in Ironwall and wanted none of it in their backyard thank you very much.

The structure of Ironwall in the early 20th century took the form of a huge wheel-shaped city with accessory satellite towns at each spoke. Centaurs being able to comfortably travel long distances, they kind of invented the commuter town before anyone else out of necessity, as there was a well-developed housing crisis within the city with citizens crushed between sky high rents and few if any places to live. It took until the 70s before motor vehicles were legalised and they were not popular, mainly used by the wealthy who could afford to modify them.

The culture of Ironwall was extremely conservative for most of its existence due to the religious leanings of its founders and landlord class, with strict modesty laws for all centaurs (specifically banning the display of the juncture between human torso and animal body) and a "hard work shapes character" attitude.

When the steel industry finally collapsed, the centre of Ironwall saw an exodus of businesses and people until suddenly, low-quality housing was readily available and super cheap - and the regular humans began to move in. This was matched by similar economic pressures elsewhere, and the different populations finally starting to truly mix; factory workers from Ironwall had gone anywhere that was still hiring and centaur accommodation was being built outside Ironwall and its satellite towns by unscrupulous business owners seizing upon this new supply of cheap labour.

With Ironwall's historic heart starting to rot, there was a big push towards making the city welcoming to tourists and rehabilitating its shabby image. This was largely successful and the first wave of poor human arrivals was quickly drowned out by a second wave of gentrifiers. The historical city centre was preserved as high rise apartments (inhospitable to centaurs) went up around the outskirts, and many of the people whose families had lived in Ironwall for generations, who'd stuck around through the recession, found themselves in the tourism industry, in a very different place than the one they'd grown up in.

And that's why ironwall au Pascal was a taxi driver miserably trying to go viral on the internet in the hopes he'd finally be able to quit ferrying tourists around his ancestral home

[apas-95]

Hamas isn't even left wing it's just correct anti imperialist practice to support them. Can you find something else to get mad at

what the fuck is 'left wing', what does that actually mean? does it mean 'historically progressive'? - if so, they certainly are. does it mean 'communist'? - if so, then no 'left wing' existed at all for the vast majority of human history. there exist leftist and rightist elements of specific classes within society, there is no such thing as an abstracted or objective 'left wing' or 'right wing'.

ultimately, hamas are part of the national-democratic movement, themselves essentially a bourgeois organ. why does this matter? the reason we care about political-economic class is because it is the driver of history and the predictor of future behaviour. what does the bourgeois character of hamas mean in the actually-existing context of palestine? given its status as an occupied and exploited country, it means they are a progressive force who have a confluence of interests with the proletariat in carrying out the national-democratic movement (though will come into conflict with the proletariat after the conclusion of the national-democratic movement and the beginnings of land and labour reform). it is not 'just correct anti-imperialist practice to support them' in some way that is divorced or in contradiction with their character as a bourgeois organ - the fact they are a bourgeois organ is exactly what produces their 'anti-imperialist' stance.

there is no supra-historical correctness to strive towards, no objective analysis of the Leftism of a given organisation - something being the correct view and the correct method of work in a given social, historical context is the absolute best that can be aspired to. also to remind you the Context of this was me saying that hamas engaging in militant resistance is better political practice than Living Anarchically or doing Radical Art Circles For Palestine

[justinspoliticalcorner]

WaPo: How car bans and heat pump rules drive voters to the far right

Shannon Osaka at WaPo:

More than a decade ago, the Netherlands embarked on a straightforward plan to cut carbon emissions. Its legislature raised taxes on natural gas, using the money earned to help Dutch households install solar panels. By most measures, the program worked: By 2022, 20 percent of homes in the Netherlands had solar panels, up from about 2 percent in 2013. Natural gas prices, meanwhile, rose by almost 50 percent. But something else happened, according to a new study. The Dutch families who were most vulnerable to the increase in gas prices — renters who paid their own utility bills — drifted to the right. Families facing increased home energy costs became 5 to 6 percent more likely to vote for one of the Netherlands’ far-right parties. A similar backlash is happening all over Europe, as far-right parties position themselves in opposition to green policies. In Germany, a law that would have required homeowners to install heat pumps galvanized the far-right Alternative for Germany party, or AfD, giving it a boost. Farmers have rolled tractors into Paris to protest E.U. agricultural rules, and drivers in Italy and Britain have protested attempts to ban gas-guzzling cars from city centers.

That resurgence of the right could slow down the green transition in Europe, which has been less polarized on global warming, and serves as a warning to the United States, where policies around electric vehicles and gas stoves have already sparked a backlash. The shift also shows how, as climate policies increasingly touch citizens’ lives, even countries whose voters are staunchly supportive of clean energy may hit roadblocks. “This has really expanded the coalition of the far right,” said Erik Voeten, a professor of geopolitics at Georgetown University and the author of the new study on the Netherlands.

Other studies have found similar results. In one study in Milan, researchers at Bocconi University studied the voting patterns of drivers whose cars were banned from the city center for being too polluting. These drivers, who on average lost the equivalent of $4,000 because of the ban, were significantly more likely to vote for the right-wing Lega party in subsequent elections. In Sweden, researchers found that low-income families facing high electricity prices were also more likely to turn toward the far right. Far-right parties in Europe have started to position themselves against climate action, expanding their platforms from anti-immigration and anti-globalization. A decade ago, the Dutch right-wing Party for Freedom emphasized that it wasn’t against renewable energy — just increasing energy prices. But by 2021, the party’s manifesto had moved to more extreme language. “Energy is a basic need, but climate madness has turned it into a very expensive luxury item,” the manifesto said. “The far right has increasingly started to campaign on opposition to environmental policies and climate change,” Voeten said.

The pushback also reflects, in part, how much Europe has decarbonized. More than 60 percent of the continent’s electricity already comes from renewable sources or nuclear power; so meeting the European Union’s climate goals means tacklingother sectors — transportation, buildings, agriculture.

[...] Some of these voting patterns have also played out in the United States. According to a study by the Princeton political scientist Alexander Gazmararian, historically-Democratic coal communities that lost jobs in the shift to natural gas increased their support for Republican candidates by 5 percent. The shift was larger in areas located farther from new gas power plants — that is, areas where voters couldn’t see that it was natural gas, not environmental regulations, that undercut coal.

Gazmararian says that while climate denial and fossil fuel misinformation have definitely played a role, many voters are motivated simply by their own financial pressures. “They’re in an economic circumstance where they don’t have many options,” he said. The solution, experts say, is todesign policies that avoid putting too much financial burden on individual consumers. In Germany, where the law to install heat pumps would have cost homeowners $7,500 to $8,500 more than installing gas boilers, policymakers quickly retreated. But by that point, far-right party membership had already surged.

The Washington Post explains what may be at least partially causing the rise of far-right extremist parties in Europe, Conservatives in Canada, and the Republicans in some parts of the US: rising energy costs that low-income people are bearing the brunt of.

In the US, right-wing hysteria about gas stove bans and electric vehicles are also playing a role.

[9w1ft]

i need help. i’m so slow at unpacking the songs & their lyrics but you guys seem so confident that Kaylor lives. mind sharing lyrics or interpretations that you make you feel confident?

i think i speak for a lot of kaylors when i say we weren’t going into this album thinking we were all in some make or break situation, where the songs would be what decides whether or not kaylor lives. and we haven’t come out of it feeling different! so for starters, the very process of processing the songs is a bit different, i think, than the process suggested in your question.

this post got kinda long so i’m going to put it under the cut! and just a tl;dr that i am just talking about this aforementioned process. i’ve started writing out interpretations for the songs that have caught my kaylor attention but it’s taking time, so i thought id go ahead and post the other aspect of my answer in the meantime

a big part of kaylor interpretation is taking a look at what taylor and karlie were doing over the period of time that an album was written and the lead up to album rollout, and seeing if it looks like karlie knew in advance about what would be on the album, or how it would be promoted. the fundamental idea is that if taylor and karlie truly hated each other like everyone insists, that they wouldn’t go out of their way to drop hints or allow one another to drop hints.

so for example, karlie started wearing this pair of sunglasses with the product name “poet” before the name of the album (the tortured poets department) was ever known. she walked in two schiaparelli runway shows (the significance being that these days its rare for her to walk a show, and she’s never walked for schiaparelli before although she’s been to their shows in years of late), one of these schiaparelli shows was specifically alien themed, which lines up with the theming of Down Bad, and then next taylor announced the tortured poets department at the grammys wearing custom schiaparelli (i don’t think taylor’s ever worn the house before). so like, these sorts of things don’t make sense until later but they are signs we look to as a backdrop when going into an album. they are a sort of most recent indicator of the state of the union.

historically (especially post 2019 when what i call the scorched earth narrative was disseminated) people looking to disprove kaylor tend to brush off this stuff (twinning, similar theming or messaging in social media, etc) as oh it’s coincidental, but even if it’s not, any kaylor things that happen now are just because taylor is grieving and desperate for karlie and/or karlie wants notoriety because she wants… more money. but as i’ve said and as many have said for the past 5 years, it makes no sense and is such a misread of drivers for karlie and taylor. i beg people to try and put themselves in karlie’s shoes and ask themselves, would you endure all the hate for… more… money?? would you fly across the country and go to taylor’s concert two weeks post-partum, in a state of physical disrepair just to… spite her?? and have millions of people send hate at you for it..?

anyway, i know this is different than lyric analysis but it’s an integral part of kaylor analysis so i wanted to highlight it. i’d also point out that a whole bunch of people are currently analyzing her entire back catalog re: matty context clues in the same ways so 🤷🏻‍♀️ i think it’s a natural tendency for a lot of people— with kaylor though it’s outlawed.

and i want to reiterate that i think observing the time surrounding the album is a particularly worthwhile thing to do because it takes into account a more recent period of time than that of which the songs represent. i think people can get tunnel vision analyzing an album or individual songs and lose sight of the fact that we are here now after the album has been written. the lyrics are not the most recent thing!

another point i feel that needs mentioning is that with kaylor, among kaylors, we are looking at recent albums more for signs of taylor weaving a story of them that leads to them getting back together publicly. the idea that we are probably not going to get some big reveal that oh everything prior was fake! we have always been together! but rather some separate telling of events that preserves the integrity of people involved to some extent. so there are likely several layers going on when looking at songs. a mix of truth and augmented truths. songs can be useful towards meeting an end goal without telling the entire truth, while the fact that they are useful is still an indicator of the meta truth. i know this sounds a little convoluted... but thats alright im not invested in proving it to people 🙈 (nor do i think it should be provable!!)

lastly, while i am still compiling all my kaylor observations from each song, i did want to point out the obvious: that my understanding of the album (and i assume this is true for more kaylors as well) is colored by the inclusion of the song Robin. …i guess i will mince my words a little bit because i consider it a sensitive subject but basically, it’s a song about something that we would expect taylor would be singing about if they’re together in the way we understand it to be, given what we have been shown. and some of the lyrics are so specific to this… far flung idea… and such a contemporary development… that it sort of works to recontextualize any of the songs on ttpd that would otherwise feel breakuppy? because it pushes the story so far forward in matching our understanding. the hardest songs are easier to see as emblematic of the past, and the path that led us here to the present. in this way, at least for me, it makes it easier to appreciate the kaylor easter eggs going on in the songs as emblematic of kaylor, as opposed to litigating them and filing them one by one, because i truly believe taylor would not release Robin if kaylor was actually over. same goes for recurring motifs throughout the album (and midnights, and you might also include folkevermore as well) related to what robin is about. might sound weird to say but you could almost make a drinking game out of the motif, honestly, given how often she does it throughout the album.

i know the whole thing is wild. i have accepted this and im not out here to push it on people 😌 though i do leave the porch light on for people passing by. because for years now, with each new album people continue to say oh this is the kaylor breakup album, oh she’s finally over it, and then i guess they get amnesia by the time the next album comes along and kaylor themes yet again persist. and idk, to me, kaylor just being together this whole time is actually one of the least complicated outcomes.

anyways, in conclusion, apologies for not providing a song by song analysis right away 🙏 but i wanted to put out this part in the meantime. i don’t expect everyone to agree with this premise but i think it’s key to understanding how a lot of us approach this album. i hope it provides a little insight into my perspective! 🫶

[revenge-of-the-assbutt]

im literally shaking with anger rn

this. as far as i know, this is the first time theres ever been a rule that can essentially make being a queer driver against the rules. these kind of "no politics" rules can and have been applied to mean "you cant be open about being queer", as queer identities are and have historically been seen as inherently political. motorsports has never been the most accepting profession, but to have a rule that makes it so that the officials wouldnt have to jump through hoops to punish queer drivers for just being themselves?

on top of all of that, what would happen if a driver was to be outed against their will? what then? would they still be punished, even if they tried to comply and hide themself from the public? would they be expected to be constantly vigilant, to not even allow themself to have a partner of their choosing? or, would they be expected to not race at all, because their entire identity puts them at risk of a rule violation?

and to those who are saying that they should just give up racing to avoid the rules, okay. would you give up something youve been working to have since you were a child like this? would you give up a lifelong dream that, in most cases, wasnt just your dream, but your parents? most of these drivers started karting when they were around 6. someone had to put them in the cart, to fund their career before they could do so themselves.

no one should be forced to live their life in the closet because an overgrown toddler with too much money and an ego the size of mars decided that who they are offends their delicate sensibilities, and that is exactly what is being asked of any queer drivers right now.

[mesetacadre]

Aviation in the USSR

A collection of excerpts from Anna Lousie Strong's The Soviets Expected It, compiled for @czerwonykasztelanic

[...] Or the guerrilla detachment which captured six German planes, destroyed five of them, and sent the sixth to the Red Army, piloted by an amateur air enthusiast, who was a tractor driver in ordinary life. Lt. Talalikhin’s initiative is already a Soviet aviator’s tradition. Exhausting his ammunition in a fight with three enemy planes, he rammed the tail of one enemy with his propeller, smashed the tail of another enemy plane with his wing tip, and then bailed out of his own plane safely. Moscow parks displayed the wreckage of the German planes, and other Soviet pilots quickly copied the tactics. An aviation technician, Konikov, won renown by attaching the fuselage of a plane he was repairing to the front platform of a military train whose locomotive had been bombed by the enemy; he thus pulled the most necessary parts of the train to safety.

pg. 14

The Soviet people glimpsed and felt victory. For the first time they began to feel that they were no longer “backward Russians.” They were beginning to challenge the world. With this went a proud sense of their unity as a nation. Cotton growers in Turkestan exulted, “We have conquered the Arctic,” though they themselves would never see the snow. Bearded peasants, who had never sat in an airplane, began to talk about “our conquest of the air.” Young Nina Kameneva expressed the mood of the country’s young people when she broke a world’s altitude record in parachute jumping and remarked on landing: “The sky of our country is the highest sky in the world.”

pg. 46

Moscow can make all the implements of war, including planes and motor trucks, inside the city. [...] Moscow’s sky is covered by an air defense that was the marvel of the London experts who visited it after the war began to make suggestions and found it far superior to London’s. Anti-aircraft shells make a thick blanket at four distinct levels to London’s one, and observation planes patrol the heavens night and day. Moscow’s four million people also offer a night-and-day defense.

pg. 51

Alma Ata, the capital of this area, has grown from a town of 60,000 to a proud young city of 260,000 in the ten years since the railroad reached it. Its life has leaped at once from the nomad epoch to the airplane. The railroad is too slow to tame the wastes of Kazakstan. From Alma Ata Airport the planes shoot forth, east, west, south, north, on new discoveries. [...] Kazakstan is only one of the energetic regions behind the Urals. South of it lie the lands of the Uzbeks and Tadjiks, where some of the largest textile mills of the U.S.S.R. work up the locally grown cotton and where automobile and airplane parts are produced by mass production in the historic city of Samarkand.

pg. 58

I have traveled many times on the Trans-Siberian. In the spring of 1935, I went from Vladivostok to Moscow with a stop-over in the Jewish autonomous territory whose capital is Birobidjan. The train was crowded with pioneering people in warm woolen clothes and padded leather jackets, engineers, Army men, developers of the Far East. [...] An army engineer who shared my table at dinner was celebrating his return by airplane from the northern wilderness by consuming a whole bottle of port and bragging about the Far Eastern pioneers.

pg. 59

According to Pierre Cot, the French Air Minister, who visited Moscow in 1933, the Soviet air arm was at least equal to the best in Europe in numbers, technical equipment, and, above all, in the productive capacity of the aviation industry.‡ Thus, by the end of 1932, which ended the first Five Year Plan, the Soviet Union had reached the level of Western Europe in armaments – a fairly modest level judged by standards of later years.

pg. 65

Other official indications of the extent of the Red Army’s mechanization come from Voroshilov’s report in 1934 [...]. Five years later [...]. He claimed that the “bomb salvo” of the Soviet air force (the number of bombs that can be dropped by all planes at once) had tripled in five years and had reached more than 6,000 tons.

pg. 66

Soviet airplane pilots also hold many world records, both in altitude and long-distance flights. Their conquest of the Arctic and its difficult weather has accustomed them to the severest conditions. Americans well remember the Soviet pilots who twice made world records by flying from Moscow to America. These were individual exploits, but the development of Arctic aviation on which they were based was the work of large numbers of pilots and implies a whole air tradition

pg. 67

Parachute jumping has become a national sport in the Soviet Union. Soviet people are probably the most air-minded people in the world. Training for air-mindedness begins in the kindergarten. Small tots play the “butterfly game” and jump around with large butterflies pinned on their hair, gaining the idea that flying is fun and a natural activity. Children in their teens make jumps from “parachute towers” which are far rougher and more realistic than the parachute tower in the New York World’s Fair, which was copied from them. The sport is popular not only in the cities but on the farms. Several years ago a Ukrainian farmer told me of his trip to the nearby city with a group of farm children, all of whom immediately formed in line in the recreation park to go up in a tall tower and jump off under a parachute. “I thought it very terrifying,” he said, “and wondered why the park authorities allowed it. Then I saw that my own thirteen-year-old daughter was at the head of the line. These children of today aren’t afraid of anything.” At an older age, Soviet young people jump from airplanes, learn to operate gliders, or even become amateur pilots in their spare time. Every large factory, government department, and many of the larger collective farms have “aviation clubs,” which are given free instruction by the government. Probably a million people in the Soviet Union have made actual jumps from parachutes. It is not surprising that the Red Army was the first to use parachute troops in active service several years before the Germans adopted them. In 1931 a small detachment of parachutists surrounded and cleaned up a bandit gang in Central Asia. The making of airplane models by young people is taken seriously in the U.S.S.R. In 1937 over a million school children were spending after-school hours in aviation model stations. At a later stage, young people of talent create real airplanes and demonstrate them at Tushino aviation exhibitions. Owing to the wide interest in aviation and the public ownership of factories, a bright Soviet youth who invents a new type of airplane may get it constructed by his factory sports club and show it off. At one of the aviation festivals I attended, I saw a score of different amateur planes, including every possible shape of flying object – short, stubby ones, long thin ones, others shaped like different kinds of insects. They added greatly to the gaiety of the occasion. Whether or not they produced any really valuable new invention, they at least encouraged the inventiveness of their makers.

pg. 72

In the past two years, especially, all this training has been given a very realistic turn. [...] Only a month before the Germans attacked the Soviet borders, 7,000 Moscow citizens practiced a special drill in repulsing parachute troops over the week end. The large numbers of such trained citizenry, both among recruits entering the Red Army and among the older citizens assisting it, greatly add to the Soviet Union’s total defense.

pg. 73

[slyscoutess]

BLOUKOUT || FORMULA 1

I think we're all chronically online enough here to know what's going on, and rightly so, on TikTok right now, but don't worry, if for some reason you've been in a cave the last few days and haven't heard , let me explain everything with such precision.

In recent days, the Met Gala 2024 was unveiled, and with it celebrities from all lists came together with a single cause, to put themselves in the spotlight with exaggerated clothes and a ticket more expensive than yours and my life. Among these was the influencer hayleyybaylee, an American influencer who thought it would be wise to record, edit and publish a video with her exaggerated clothes, heading to a dance that only the elite within the biggest elites have the right to go to, in the audio of the video? a line that is certainly historically excruciating.

while Rafah, the only theoretically safe place, or at least that was what had been promised to the Palestinian people, was being completely bombed, Hayley was publishing a video with the audio of Marie Antoinette: “let them eat cake”. If you, like me, are a history lover, you know well the episode in history that the French people lived from then on.

With the memory of this audio, we reclaim our power as the people in control, we gave these people the platform and from these people we can take the platform away at any time we want. If the government and the rich are not giving their time to those in need, we will need to force their gaze in the direction we want.

Here we have a term: the people for the people.

because it's literally all we have.

with that, we brought our guillotines outside and decided to take from them what they don't know how to use; their voices and their platforms. blokout2024 is a line that anyone can participate in, the best way to help is to share lists and that includes your own, but it was bothering me how there were names that never appeared there, the formula 1 drivers.

These playboys who spend the year doing Vrom Vrom don't pay attention to anything that doesn't affect them and this was seen with the whole Christian Horner harassment case and some of the reactions to this case. It's time to demand some responsibility from them, they are not babies, they are not children, they are men who are always ready to defend harassers and say that they respect racists and criminals.

“but love, boys can't talk about it” Sir Lewis Hamilton, as always and once again, proved that they can. the man continues to publish links and news about Palestine, and this is not recently, and we know that when Lewis makes donations, he is not in the habit of taking a stand on them, just as he recently did for the Brazilian people with the case of Rio Grande do Sul, the other pilots and their partners just don't care. not to mention the teams and their bosses. This even affects the Formula 1 Academy, with Charlotte Tilbury as a sponsor and frequently in the paddock, for those who don't know, Charlotte recently fired Bella Hadid, a Palestinian woman, for protesting and continuing to speak about the country of her blood and family.

remembering that there are convinced Zionists within the paddock, such as Lance Stroll's girlfriend, sister and brother-in-law, the latter is also Daniel Ricciardo's best friend. Tell me who you hang out with and I'll tell you who you are.

I'm not here telling you to stop liking your favorites, I'm not here telling you to stop watching the races, I love some of these and it will hurt me to block them, but not as much as it hurts me to know that they close their eyes and remain quiet in all their luxury, I'm here saying that we need to demand a position from these men and women, we were the ones who gave them the platform, how many people in Palestine can be fans of these people who ignore their suffering on a daily basis? so keep writing fanfics, follow the gossip pages, but the officials need to take a stand

If even the swifties are doing it, why can't we do it?

Let’s Start Big:

BLOCK

FIRST HALF || SECOND HALF

HONORARY MENTION

LN4 |

LN Rancing Kart |

Lando JPG |

Lando Movie |

Quadrant |

Max Fewtrell |

Lec |

F1Academy |

Nico Rosberg |

Romain Grosjean |

Jenson Button |

Kimi Räikkönen |

Sebastian Vettel |

Mick Schumacher |

Magui Corceiro |

Ollie Bearman |

Liam Lawson |

James Vowles |

Bianca Bustamante |

Sky Sports F1 |

Zak Brown |

Christian Horner |

CS55 Racing |

Arrow McLaren |

1 paper cut doesn't really hurt, but 28 million paper cuts can kill you. Let's fucking hit the pentagon, only follow trought fan accounts.

We, the damned of the earth, have only each other. And that will be enough.

[unopenablebox]

i can't actually bring myself to name the post i was originally thinking about for various reasons, some cowardly and some reasonably intellectually honest. so instead i'm going to air a bunch of uncoordinated grievances culled from a wide variety of sources

unfortunately i have spent several years being driven insane by random one off tumblr comments about science that i took incredibly personally and now i have a million deranged complaints about how no one is nice enough to me about my job

like. idk. it would be nice if people were willing to extend the benefit of the doubt for ideas like: maybe scientists also know that measurements we use are proxies for the underlying thing, and that might have something to do with why we often try to have three or four different ways of checking for what we hope is the same phenomenon. but ultimately we do just have to try to use the tools that currently exist to look at the world and report honestly on what we think it looks like. "can you believe scientists think x is the only thing that would show whether something is y" look we're just trying to figure something out that we can get to work repeatedly so that literally anyone else can actually check our work. and that's actually very hard to do. ofc these concepts are themselves culturally and historically contingent and a lot of other factors go into the formulation of what an experiment is or how things get solidified as canonical methods etc. but i don't think "we would like to do things that have a hope of being consistently doable so that things can be compared to each other, and people can meaningfully describe things to each other and be understood, and that shapes what experiments we in practice do" is some kind of deeply suspect motivation on either a personal or institutional level and it would be nice if people acknowledged that that is often a driver for what actually is done. sometimes you do what's possible and describable.

or. idk. this one is also kind of about my own interpersonal experience and not a tumblr post, though still kind of about tumblr posts. but like. scientists absolutely make what are essentially personal judgments based on aesthetics or sensibilities about what to study. because there's so much fucking stuff. and it can't all be "what kills the most people" or "what has money available", not least because some of us can't actually keep going day to day on the basis of either of those, but also because even within those the universe is full of stuff. and 1. yes, in fact this means expanding the set of people making those judgments and what kinds of experiences shaped their sensibilities is very valuable, as one of several arguments for improving diversity in science but also 2. we're not, like, automatons gleefully doing Soulless Nonsense while cackling about how we're keeping everyone from learning about the true beauty of the world that real people care about. we're real people also. (it's also, incidentally, not a sick burn to explain to us that we were using human judgment and impulses while we were studying science. we have all lived inside our own brains while doing this and also attended so many seminars where someone helpfully explained it like it was new information.)

like, personally, i think it's really exciting when proteins can consistently arrange themselves on only one side of a cell. because it looks really cool and it's exciting to think about and doesn't obviously fall out of what we already know proteins do. this isn't, like, a sign of a fundamentally corrupt and cold nature that doesn't understand the world's beauty. no one is ever going to pay me lots of money in exchange for my thrilling new results about cell shapes i just think they're really beautiful and interesting. but i resent having to piously announce that i'm really interested in the World's True Beauty and Animals and the Mystical Wonders of Nature in order to communicate this point. i intrinsically value and care about what proteins do and that's the framework i'm operating in and that's the kind of thing that motivates a lot of people in science and it's simply not reasonable to act like that's some kind of evil alien motivation unmoored from the true human impulse. like i actually am mostly doing this because i also really like that kinesin animation where it walks on a microtubule. i just got really into it.

on a separate point, i know that reading scientific papers is hard and a trained skill, and contextualizing them is really annoying, but unfortunately we are just going to have to maintain a saintlike state of mild skepticism about strong claims made in university press releases that are then breathlessly repeated on tumblr. nothing to be done about that right now they'll just say whatever unfortunately. i promise to continue writing bitchy four-paragraph posts about their conceptual limits if and when i happen to notice one i know enough about to evaluate and then also have time to do it

[lalalenii]

Noch mehr news von Elizabeth Arthur

Es gibt jetzt doch keine 4 Kapitel Leseprobe weil sie hat sich das anders überlegt.

Aber die ersten 3 Bücher gibt's als Preorder bei Amazon für je 9 $.

Das gute daran: es gibt jetzt Klappentexte

The Mystery of the Abecedarian Academy

The world has changed since the first time The Three Investigators went into action, but some things never go out of style. The persistence of truth. The power of perseverance. The importance of questioning everything.

Conceived and co-written by Elizabeth Arthur, the daughter of Robert Arthur, the creator of the Three Investigators universe, this exciting reboot of the classic series takes its iconic characters into a new age. They return reimagined, reinvigorated, and more relevant than ever.

In the first book of a 26-book story arc, it's the summer before their freshman year in high school and Jupiter Jones, Bob Andrews, and Pete Crenshaw are back on the case in Rocky Beach, California. Their new client, Isabella Chang, wants to discover the truth about a murdered ancestor whose son Li Chang is rumored to have hidden a bag of gold nuggets his father panned from the American River during the heady days of the California gold rush.

With their old friend and mentor Hector Sebastian moving to Wyoming and their longtime driver Worthington leaving the Rent'n'Ride to set up a business of his own, The Three Investigators are facing big changes. Nevertheless, they manage to convince Worthington to drive them to the Gold Country in a rented four-wheel drive, stopping along the way to set up camp in Yosemite.

Before they take off, Jupiter's Uncle Titus returns to the Salvage Yard with a new haul of unusual old items, including a suit of armor and eight Chinese talismans painted on hammered metal – one of which is a Talisman Against Demons. In Yosemite, Bob gets an unexpected call from a menacing relative of Isabella Chang who seems determined to scare them off the case. Thus begins a tale of intrigue, misdirection, hunches, ciphers, clues, coincidences, and a classic blend of legwork and analysis.

Why was the one-room schoolhouse where Li Chang was educated suddenly razed to the ground? Why is its foundation being guarded by a wild-eyed woman with a shotgun? Who stole letters addressed to Li Chang's Irish schoolmaster? What does the Owl of Athena carved on Li Chang's grave marker mean? And why was Li Chang so secretive about the location of his hidden gold?

Join Jupiter, Pete, and Bob as they ponder the complexity of a book cipher and uncover secrets hidden for generations. Adventure, danger, and intrigue await in this absorbing new episode in the Three Investigators saga. Whether you're a long-time fan or are meeting the boys for the first time, you'll be glad to be part of this new beginning.

The Mystery of the Brobdingnagian Beast

In the second book of a 26-book story arc, the Three Investigators find themselves on a dangerous mission to uncover the truth of what's happening on a film being shot in Sonoma, California, location of the historic Bear Flag rebellion. Pete Crenshaw's father, a set construction manager, enlists the team to help when strange events begin unfolding on the set of Bear Valley, a movie about the controversial explorer and politician, John C. Frémont.

From the moment the boys arrive, they're thrust into a chaotic mix of violence, protests, and intrigue. A mysterious group called OUTLAW is determined to shut down the film. As its members push against police barricades in their black masks, tensions run high between two feuding historians - Phillipa Paxton and Daniel Hernández - with competing views on Frémont's legacy.

The team faces explosive threats, the masked mob, and a reenactment of the past with a twist: a man who believes he is the reincarnation of a 19th-century Pomo bear-doctor. But the deeper they dig, the more they realize that what seems like a simple protest is just the surface of a much darker, more dangerous conspiracy. Phillipa Paxton puts The Three Investigators on the trail of a piece of Frémont memorabilia, and their suspicions are aroused when it turns out that someone else has been searching high and low for the same item.

Who is behind the mysterious keg of gunpowder that's set off on set? Who slashed Dr. Paxton's tires and left ominous signs of their presence near her garage? What's the connection between a Frémont artifact that reportedly burned in the Great San Francisco Fire of 1906 and a strange letter supposedly signed by the famous frontiersman, Kit Carson?

Join the team as they sift truth from falsehood and face a real-life villain with a heart of darkness in this thrilling continuation of the new Three Investigators saga. Whether you're a long-time fan or new to the series, you'll find yourself part of an adventure that mixes history, mystery, and the ever-present need to fight for what's right.

The Mystery of the Chimeric Cornucopia

In the third book of a 26-book story arc, the Three Investigators head to Jackson, California, for a Fourth of July celebration at the vineyard of their new friend Branko Petrovic. Jupiter hopes the visit will bring him closer to solving the mystery of his long-dead mother, but his only clue is that she was Serbian - and her name, Amanda Morris, doesn't seem to fit.

After receiving a finder's fee from their summer's first case, the boys use part of their earnings to buy a used car, and Worthington drives them north. On the way, Bob shares a story about André Laurent, a French-Canadian counterfeiter and murderer who had been arrested in Jackson twenty-five years earlier, only to skip bail and vanish.

The investigation takes an unexpected turn when the boys stumble upon Laurent's old counterfeiting operation - an offset press and engraved plates for printing one-hundred-dollar bills - hidden deep in a cavern on Branko's family's property, and guarded by a colony of nesting bats. But their interest and amazement soon turn to trepidation when they realize Laurent has returned to reclaim the stolen plates, and that they're holding the evidence he'll stop at nothing to get back.

Where has André Laurent been for the past twenty-five years and why has he burned off his own fingerprints? How does he find out where The Three Investigators are staying? And how is all of this connected to Jupiter's mysterious past? As fireworks light up the sky at Dragutin Wines, Jupiter uncovers part of the truth about his mother, but a dangerous confrontation with Laurent leaves the boys facing life-threatening peril.

Join Jupiter, Pete, and Bob as they uncover the facts about a quarter-century-old crime, chase down a ruthless criminal, and discover the truth about Jupiter's parentage in this action-packed new addition to the Three Investigators series.

[kiwisa]

genesis ✩ the harpy

F1 Grid x Fem! F1 Driver! OC

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

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

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

✩ March 28, 2021

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

...

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

...

... 

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

...

...

...

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

...

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

✩ April 2, 2021

And then fell the verdict. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was April 2. D-16. 

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

✩ April 5, 2021

Then came the first practice. 

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

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

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

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

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

The record to beat was literally zero. 

She did not know if she should laugh or cry. 

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

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

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

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

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

“My name is Adam.”

“Oh.”

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

This is it. 

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

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

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

“More enjoyable now that it's mine.”

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

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

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

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

"Radio check, Astrée, do you copy?”

“Copy.”

“Great. Whenever you're ready.”

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

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

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

“Just warm up your tyres for now.”

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

“Copy. Just be careful.” 

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

“Box.”

“Copy.” 

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

“It was better than I imagined!”

“That's pretty good for a woman.”

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

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

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

“Likewise.”

✩ April 16, 2021

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

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

Her doubts were soon confirmed. 

“Not too scared?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don't doubt it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"George, over here mate!"

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

So much for discretion. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before the woman could respond, George butted in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, that question. Always the same.

"Should women drive in F1?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably.” 

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

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

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

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

God, give me the strength. 

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

He grinned brightly at her. 

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

✩ April 17, 2021  

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

... 

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

...

...

...

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

...

...

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

...

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

...

...

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

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

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

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

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

✩ April 18, 2021, 3PM. 

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

The first acceleration. 

Take advantage of the confusion during the first corner. 

The total absence of hesitation. 

The Tamburello, taken tightly. Three places already won. 

The routine that sets in.

The fear of all other drivers. 

The laps, one after the other. 

The nonstop overtaking. 

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

…

…

“22 laps! 41 more to go!”

…

“Box,” said Elijah. “Tyre change.”

“Copy.”

...

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

...

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

...

...

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

“Merde! Okay, copy.”

...

...

...

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

...

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

...

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

...

... 

...

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

...

...

And then, the liberation. 

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

✩ April 18, 2021, 6PM. 

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

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

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

Damn, what is his skincare routine? 

“The dermo-system range from Dior.”

“Huh?”

“My skincare routine. It's Dior.”

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

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

Idiote. 

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

Stay calm. Look normal. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The taste of victory was delicious. 

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

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

Astrée smirked.

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

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