#scheduling system machine

[huntandhunt]

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[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

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[antmyerp]

Businesses installing coffee vending machines must plan their operations effectively. Software for field service scheduling provides a centralized platform for resource allocation, appointment management, and workflow optimization. This software benefits those who install coffee vending machines by saving time and effort.

[nasa]

Hubble Space Telescope: Exploring the Cosmos and Making Life Better on Earth

In the 35 years since its launch aboard space shuttle Discovery, the Hubble Space Telescope has provided stunning views of galaxies millions of light years away. But the leaps in technology needed for its look into space has also provided benefits on the ground. Here are some of the technologies developed for Hubble that have improved life on Earth.

Image Sensors Find Cancer

Charge-coupled device (CCD) sensors have been used in digital photography for decades, but Hubble’s Space Telescope Imaging Spectrograph required a far more sensitive CCD. This development resulted in improved image sensors for mammogram machines, helping doctors find and treat breast cancer.

Laser Vision Gives Insights

In preparation for a repair mission to fix Hubble’s misshapen mirror, Goddard Space Flight Center required a way to accurately measure replacement parts. This resulted in a tool to detect mirror defects, which has since been used to develop a commercial 3D imaging system and a package detection device now used by all major shipping companies.

Optimized Hospital Scheduling

A computer scientist who helped design software for scheduling Hubble’s observations adapted it to assist with scheduling medical procedures. This software helps hospitals optimize constantly changing schedules for medical imaging and keep the high pace of emergency rooms going.

Optical Filters Match Wavelengths and Paint Swatches

For Hubble’s main cameras to capture high-quality images of stars and galaxies, each of its filters had to block all but a specific range of wavelengths of light. The filters needed to capture the best data possible but also fit on one optical element. A company contracted to construct these filters used its experience on this project to create filters used in paint-matching devices for hardware stores, with multiple wavelengths evaluated by a single lens.

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

[zeawesomebirdie]

The moment I get my sewing machine serviced, I'm making a housecoat

[keferon]

Chapter 3 of Blurr’s storyline in Mecha AU!

Previous chapter

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers.

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Under the cut⤵️

——————————————————

It's Swindle's birthday.

He thinks it is.

He's pretty sure.

Since he was taken into the program, it's always hard to tell. It's like time flows differently here. He had a calendar, but Brawl put it somewhere a while ago and then forgot where it was. And they're not allowed to have phones yet. Though Swindle assumes Onslaught managed to steal one from someone anyway.

Shit. Where's the calendar?

Swindle remembers the date, but can't remember the month.

There's a strange static tingling sensation in the back of his head. If he turns his head too fast, it'll grow into an unpleasant pricking pain.

The last time in the lab was disgusting.

He can't remember what month it is. He's not even sure why it bothers him so much. Not that birthdays mean anything within the walls of the program.

He stops in the middle of the living room and looks around with a meticulous eye. He's already checked the beds, desk, and nightstands...hah.

“Hey have any of you seen my calendar?”

Vortex, sitting on top of the bunk bed shakes the ash off his cigarette right down into Blast Off's lap.

“Nope.”

“TEX YOU'RE LITTERING ON MY BED.”

“I could have ..torn it up” offers Brawl from across the room.

Swindle turns on his heels and angrily rests his arms at his sides.

“You tore it?”

“I might have,” Brawl scratches the back of his head.

Swindle pinches the bridge of his nose

That's fine. Not that he cares that much. Not that any celebration at all would save the crappy day.

He has some new “experimental” medical procedure scheduled for later, which generally means suffering. Or if he's lucky, some critter will attack the city and instead of squirming on the slab, he'll have to go cuddle with huge nasty beasts. Which is slightly better than the actual procedures. He'd like that to happen. If only his head would also stop buzzing....

“Happy birthday to me” Swindle thinks, sticking his Mech hand under the plates of a particularly ugly monster and pulling something disgustingly oozing green blood out of there. He can see the faces of the random gawkers who didn't have time to evacuate. Ooh, some of them got that nasty stuff on their faces. Swindle has no time to feel sorry for them.

The monster did attack, but it's entirely possible that this monster ended the last meager supply of luck Swindle had. Because somewhere. Something. In his head begins to hurt again and the world in front of his eyes begins to slowly blur and..

ahh FUCK….

The monster grabs him knocks him to the ground and Swindle can literally feel in his bones that something's wrong, but the data from his Mech doesn't give him any useful information. Which isn't that uncommon. These things are glitchy as hell and aren't designed to recognize anything but the most basic popular malfunctions.

The word “error” shines mockingly in his face. Blurring in his eyes and reflecting in red on his uniform.

Error, error, what the hell is this error. He needs to know what's wrong so he doesn't accidentally kill himself, but all this bucket offers him is oops. You're in trouble teeheee~

He can hear the sound of Blast Off's giant cannon in the distance. And the loud rumble where Vortex and Onslaught are trying to get out of the ring of monsters.

His Mech is unresponsive. His damn machine refuses to move and Swindle isn't quite sure if it's the Mech that's the problem, because his head feels like a piece of raw rotten meat and maybe the error meant that what's broken is him.

The monster leans over him, trying to rip off whatever it can rip off and thank god this thing apparently isn't smart enough to realize that the Mech is controlled from the head because it's aiming straight for his chest.

He needs to get out. If he can't get this thing to move, he needs to get the fuck out of it before the alien gets him.

He manages to open the emergency hatch and quietly slip out and ohhhh the world is spinning, this is not bloody good.

He manages to take a few steps before a loud B A N G comes from somewhere above and IS THAT A TRAIN???? Who in their right mind would think of using a fucking train as a throwing weapon???? Is that Brawl? It's got to be Brawl. Oh, Swindle is so gonna kill him.

Because (sadly) in addition to the monster, the train and Swindle, there's also physics involved in this circus.

So while the monster is effectively brought to rest and knocked sideways with a hole in it’s head, the train stops its forward motion and starts its downward motion.

Right onto Swindle's head.

He just has time to think that dying from a train falling out of the sky is a pretty creative death. His legs are shaking, his head is buzzing and he only manages to take half a sluggish step in an attempt to avoid the inevitable when a loud “MOVE” comes to his ears and something yanks him to the side.

The tug sends fire down his spine and head. The ensuing landing reverberates with pain in his shoulder and sides. He barely has time to process the first two sensations until a moment later he hears a rumble so deafening that he thinks his eardrums are about to burst.

Swindle props himself up on his elbows and hisses in pain as the movement causes the back of his head to sting.

“Ah I'll fuckin' kill him...”

A voice comes above him

“Ouw dude. You okay?”

There's.. Some teenager hovering over him. And behind him is lying...the wrecked train...right where Swindle himself was standing a second ago.

The strange teen frowns worriedly and pulls Swindle upright and drags him somewhere else

“Come on, it's best not to be in the open during monster attacks”

“Ah” thinks Swindle ”right. Without Mech you're a pathetic tiny piece of chop begging to be stomped on by Brawl.”

He tries to focus on balance so he doesn't hang too much on this kid.

They find the nearest unlocked door, which turns out to be the entrance to an underground bar.

“So” says the stranger, letting go of Swindle and shaking the dust off his hair ” You're a pilot! That's so cool, but you're kinda small for a pilot.”

Swindle sighs sullenly.

“I'll let you have that one comment about my height because you helped me, but next time you're dead.”

“Helped? I saved your ass.”

“Helped a lot” says Swindle grudgingly. “Thanks.”

The teen laughs and climbs into the bar. It's a mess everywhere, people clearly evacuated in a hurry and threw everything in haste.

“What's your name? Oh, or, wait. Do you guys use code names? I've heard pilots call each other by call signs, but half the time those call signs sound so dumb, I don't see how they can respond to that.”

He waits for the kid to cut off his flow of words to take a breath. Man, what a chatty boy.

“You can call me Swindle.”

“Kay” the kid pulls out a couple glasses ”I'm Blurr. Would you like something Swindle? I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty good at mixing cocktails.”

Swindle looks around the room suspiciously. The bar, even though it's underground, looks pretty good. Too good, in fact. The place is clearly not for the poor.

He walks over to the bar and climbs onto a bar stool. There's no one else in here but them, but the electricity is on so he doesn't doubt for a second that they're being filmed by a security camera right now. Maybe a few even.

Blurr throws him an expectant look.

Swindle pretends to go through his pockets. As if there could be money in them out of nowhere. Then he makes a comically confused face and spreads his hands.

“Oh, no, I think I left my millions at home. What's the cheapest thing you have?”

Blurr snorts.

“Ice is free.”

“I'll take the ice then” nods Swindle.

There is a loud rumbling sound above them. It must be Vortex having fun again bouncing on the aliens that have fallen to the ground, crushing their heads.

Swindle is just. He takes off his helmet, takes a glass of ice and presses it to his head enjoying the way the nasty buzzing recedes.

Blurr waits for the rumbling to recede before speaking again.

“But really. You're a pilot but...uh. Are you even old enough to drink?”

Swindle sends him his best grumpy look. It's not exactly a joke about his height, but it's damn close.

“Are you old enough to pour?”

“Sure,” says Blurr too fast for it to be true. If Swindle had to guess, he'd say the guy in front of him is no older than seventeen. The tattered jeans and the T-shirt with the F1 logo printed on it definitely don't help. And, hey, those headphones look very expensive. So do the sneakers. Kid's clearly from a wealthy family.

Blurr pulls out a bottle of syrup from somewhere and pours it straight into his mouth. Doesn't miss, which is amusing. Doesn't wince, which is frankly impressive. Swindle feels the unbearable sweetness just looking at him.

It suddenly hits him

“Hey, do you have a phone?”

“Sure,” Blurr pours himself more syrup. Swindle twitches.

“What's the day today?”

Blurr's mouth is full of an unimaginable amount of sugar, so he just pulls out his phone and turns its screen toward Swindle and oh...oh. He was wrong about the date. And the month, too. It's not his birthday. His birthday was a week ago...

Does that mean he must be nineteen now? Yeah, that makes him nineteen.

Blurr takes the phone back and slips it into his pocket.

“Your face looks funny.”

“I just realized it's my birthday today,” smiles Swindle.

“Oooooooohh~~~” rejoices Blurr ”Congratulations! It's kind of poetic that you almost died just today. Can you imagine how funny the numbers on your tombstone would have looked.”

Swindle chokes on air.

“That's certainly a very appropriate comment, thank you...”

“Sorry haha said without thinking.” Blurr reaches under the counter again and pulls out a bottle from there “Hey, they have more syrups!”

There's another loud rumble from upstairs.

Blurr presses his head into his shoulders and stares up at the ceiling as if hoping to see something through it.

Swindle puts his elbows and head on the tabletop

“Don't worry, it's just Brawl.”

Blurr doesn't take his eyes off the ceiling

“ You can tell that by the sound of falling concrete?”

Swindle lazily dangles his feet. The chair is high and even the toes of his shoes don't reach the floor.

“Brawl is the loudest. And the heaviest, too. He's always crashing into everything, throwing things and breaking things too. You can hear him a mile away.”

He pauses to listen

“And that kch-ooooooooomm is Blast Off's cannon. It's some super rare experimentally advanced one, so it sounds like something out of a space movie. He couldn't stop bragging about it for half a year when he got it.”

Blurr chuckles and leans his elbows on the counter, relaxing.

“ And this...uh...what's this?”

“That's Vortex, he's our local lunatic. Best not to listen too much to what he does, it's almost always disgusting in ways you would never even consider.”

Blurr makes a disgruntled face and is silent for a couple minutes.

“It's weird hearing you call them by their names. I mean, I kind of always knew Mechs were run by people but you guys are never seen, so most of the time it's just.. Huge robots and huge monsters. You know what I mean. I was actually surprised when I saw you get out of that Mech.”

Swindle just nods. Because, what else is there to add.

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”.

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Blurr doesn't seem to notice his glum mood

“Oh, hey. If it's no secret, why did you go into piloting in the first place?”

Because he had no choice? He can't answer that, that information isn't for civilians.

Because he didn't know what he was getting into until it was too late? That's not vague enough either.

Because he was up to his neck in debt and barely into college before a smiling man showed up on his doorstep and offered him good money if he agreed to a couple tests...?

“I had to do it for the people.” Swindle decides to repeat a line of propaganda.

“Ohhhh.... That's...a good reason. The monsters are disgusting, of course. But the reason is cool.”

Swindle just. Holds his glass of melting ice, listens to Blurr's mutterings, and enjoys the peace. This random teenager is not his superior or colleague and has nothing to do with the organization at all. Swindle doesn't have to remember to salute or follow orders or fear being reported to his superiors.

He can just. Be.

Just him and his free ice and his saved for free life.

That's. Sweet.

Blurr's drinking syrup again.

...and a little disgusting.

—————————-

Brawl jumps out of bed, hits his head on a shelf hanging on the wall and drops everything on it onto Blast Off's head

“Swindle!!!” yells Brawl.

“Why are these books sticky???” shrieks Blast Off.

“You don't wanna know~” giggles Vortex.

Swindle sighs.

“You're alive!!!” ignores Blast Off Brawl's complaints. And a second later runs up and pulls Swindle off the floor in a crushing bear hug.

Behind them, Blast Off, with his face wrinkled in disgust, gathers all the dropped books back onto the shelf.

Swindle wheezes pathetically and slaps Brawl's arm with his palm, either to reciprocate the gesture or to beg for mercy

“Br...khaaaaah...Brawl I can't breathh.”

“OH. I'm uh. Here. Wait.”

Brawl puts him back on the floor and runs back to the shelf.

Onslaught, who has peeked into the room, puts a hand on Swindle's shoulder

“You've been gone a long time. Boss said you tried to escape.”

His tone isn't judgmental. And not pressuring. Not even questioning, but Swindle knows Onslaught wants more information. Swindle clutches a piece of napkin with a phone number in his pocket and smiles weakly.

“I've found a...friend? I think?”

Onslaught nods. In a manner that only he knows how to do. Not giving an opinion, not encouraging or condemning. Just taking in the information. Swindle admires him for that.

Behind them, Brawl pulls some piece of paper out from under the books that have just been put away and drops them again

“FUCK!” yells Blast Off. Vortex just starts hooting like a hyena.

“Hey Swindle I found the calendar!” yells Brawl waving the paper.

Swindle frowns in surprise.

“It's a different calendar...”

“I found you a new one.” nods Brawl.

“...Why...is it...it's torn in half?”

“It had stupid flowers drawn on it, so I ripped them off. And I accidentally ripped off more than I needed.”

“Ah,” says Swindle, clutching the calendar, ”That's...Thanks. I forgive you for losing the previous one.”

Behind them, Blast Off is trying to strangle Vortex with a jacket.

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

Blurr waves his arms happily like a hyperactive windmill.

“Swindle!!!”

Swindle smiles and adjusts his glasses

“Your party can be seen from across city.”

“I know~~” primps Blurr “Are you hungry? There was a snack table around here somewhere.”

“I didn't bring any money.” lies Swindle.

“Hey man, it's a party. Help yourself, it's free.”

“Оh.” Swindle's mood instantly brightens. “All right, then.”

“You look terrible” Blurr decides to share.

Swindle, busy shoveling food into his pockets, nods.

“I've had a rough week. Actually, it'd be cool if you didn't tell anyone you saw me here. I'm kind of not supposed to be here.”

He doesn't elaborate.

Blurr is a civilian. In his mind, a rough week is rude people or an exam or bad weather. Swindle's bad week is strap marks on his wrists and double vision. It's nausea from injections and sleepless nights because Vortex won't stop screaming in his sleep.

Blurr doesn't know that. With him, Swindle can pretend to be somewhat normal.

-----------

“Heeeeey“ says Blurr ‘I haven't seen you in a long time~"

“That” thinks Swindle ”is a pretty standard phrase for both of them.

Blurr looks older. Taller too. He was taller than Swindle before, but now that difference is starting to look almost comical. He's also flaunting a cast on his arm.

“Did you get hurt?”

“Didn't make a turn at training” waves Blurr off “It's no big deal. Wanna go find something to eat?”

Blurr is always trying to feed him, Swindle notices over time. Offers him drinks or snacks or whatever.

“ I like your uh..cap?”

“I got a promotion” Swindle smiles proudly “Me and the guys were made a special group...actually you're not allowed to know more than that, so you'll have to take my word for it when I say we are officially cool.”

He purposely adjusts his cap by the brim so Blurr can get a good look at it.

Blurr makes a delighted sound. Something between a “wow” and a giggle. He generally makes a lot of sounds all the time. Tapping his fingers on every hard surface, stomping in place like he's always late for something, laughing, whistling, clicking his tongue. A human orchestra.

__________

Onslaught sits down next to Swindle and clutches his hands in his lap in front of him. This makes the bed legs squeak pitifully. Onslaught has grown surprisingly large. He can almost rival Brawl in height already. Most people find that intimidating, but Swindle just thinks Onslaught is like a wall. A big, solid concrete wall that's so good to hide behind.

“Be careful with what you tell this guy.”

“Don't worry” says Swindle ”He's not the type of friend you tell secrets to. He's just a fun dude who's great to hang out with.”

Onslaught hums.

“And who feeds you for free.”

“If that's how you're trying to ask me to share, you're not doing a very good job.”

Vortex snaps his fingers as he walks past them

“Hey Swindler, the lab is closed for today. It's your day off.”

“Wha...”

Onslaught tilts his head.

“Vortex. What did you do?”

“I spat in their dna sample vault” proudly proclaims Vortex “and didn't tell them exactly where.”

-----———————-

Blurr frowns.

“Hey...are you okay?”

“No” thinks Swindle.

“My friend died” he says instead.

He's not okay. He feels like an animal caught in a beartrap, trying to chew off its own paw to get free.

Except the trap is closed around Swindle's head and it's not a body part he can afford to lose.

There's been a lot of talk. Even more rumors. Swindle listened but tried not to believe.

And then one of pilots, Shockwave… was taken to the lab and brought back a different damn man and it felt like Swindle had the rug pulled out from under his feet with hot coals underneath.

Because Swindle's boss, with his stupid, rehearsed smile, started writing reports about how “human personality flaws are something that can be fixed. That challenging behavior is something that can be repaired with tools.

Blurr freezes.

“Who?”

“Vortex.”

Because of course it's Vortex. Talented but difficult to handle. Powerful but uncontrollable.

They wanted a pilot who would be a beast on the battlefield and a loyal dog on base. And who else would be a more ideal test subject than him?

Vortex was being very rude that day, even by Vortex standards. Yelling and swearing and throwing things around. Kept saying that no shitty lab could make him “a fucking puppet.”

Scratching the stitches on his head until he started leaving a trail of blood behind him.

He went on a mission.

And never came back.

The reports said it was all the monsters' fault. That Vortex was unstable. That the accident had nothing to do with the new technology. But it was nevertheless suspended.

Swindle is both bitter and amused by this. Vortex would eat the same monsters for breakfast any other day. The bastard was unkillable.

“Oh my god” says Blurr “I'm so sorry to hear that.”

He says something else. Probably comforting. About how Vortex died protecting people, maybe. About Vortex being a hero.

“Vortex,” thinks Swindle, ”loved life. He loved adrenaline and danger and pain and thrill and fear, but he never wanted to die. They did something to him. Something that made him go over the edge.”

Vortex got his head in the trap and ripped it off to escape it.

Swindle knows him and the others are next. And knows that no one but themselves can help them.

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

Blast Off seems...very quiet. He could never stop complaining about Vortex before. Yelling about the garbage. Resenting the unmade bed and the cigarette ashes.

Vortex's bed remains unmade.

Blast Off regularly cleans everything up, but never wipes away the little circles of ash from the places where Vortex used to put out cigarettes on the furniture.

Onslaught puts his hand on Swindle's shoulder and squeezes. Not hard. Just enough for Swindle to register the gesture as important.

Standing nearby, Blast Off lights a cigarette and leans on Onslaught.

“Ons told me about your plan. I want to join in.”

“What kind of plan? Can I get involved?” inquires Brawl.

Onslaught sighs.

“Repeat after me - I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“Good job” nods Onslaught “From now on, every time they ask you any - listen. Any! Question about us, you will answer them with this phrase.”

“Got it,” grins Brawl.

Swindle smiles.

“Gentlemen, it's time to violate all that is written, and rewrite all that is violated.”

__________________

Blurr lazily takes his eyes off the phone. He's wearing a racing suit and tons of hairspray. He's shiny and gleaming like a fine collectible figurine that should be on the shelf of an expensive exhibit. He's also bored.

“Sorry buddy, the interview is long over, if you have any questions you'll have to pay for the session.”

Swindle smiles.

“How about one tiny little question?”

Blurr makes funny big eyes.

“SWINDLE!!! I haven't seen you in a thousand years! You...oh I didn't recognize you haha sorry. Nice coat. You quit being a pilot?”

Swindle proudly adjusts his glasses. He's wearing a brand-new, ironed shirt that's exactly his size. Nice neat tie, expensive coat. Swindle isn't surprised Blurr didn't recognize him immediately. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize himself. After all those years of wearing the pilot's uniform, he felt almost attached to it. And yet here he is.

“You could say I moved.” he winks snarkily, “Up. All the Mechs you see on the streets now are my Mechs~”

Blurr completely forgets about his phone.

“REALLY?? Oh man congrats to you!”

“Thanks” nods Swindle ”You want something to drink? I'm buying.”

———————-

Onslaught adjusts his tie. It's still, years later, a little strange to see him in a uniform instead of a pilot's suit.

“You do realize it's going to be hard to find a person like that, right? We need someone famous enough to be effective and dumb enough to want to save mankind instead of sunbathing on a yacht.”

Swindle adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair.

Someone outgoing so they can quickly befriend all the right people. Handsome enough to have their face printed on a poster. Smart just enough not to say too much. And not associated with Mecha program so they can't be accused of trying to get promoted through their acquaintances.

Someone who already has everything but still willing to put themselves at risk for the cause.

“You know, I think I have a possible candidate.”

[luulapants]

Adding into the discussion of the incarcerated young people fighting fires in California:

I can think of no place worse than prison for emotionally stunting or regressing a person or for dismantling their ability to make good decisions.

You take an adult or child who maybe has exhibited some antisocial behaviors, right? So you remove them from whatever community and support network they have, put enormous financial and logistical barriers between them and any communication with that community. Incarcerate them hours from home in a place not accessible by train or plane with narrow visiting hours that conflict with people's work schedules, and maybe you're fighting to prevent in person visits at all, maybe you got a kickback from a company selling expensive video call visits so people can't even hug their kids when they drive 6 hours on a Wednesday to see them. Get a kickback from a phone service provider that's going to charge extortionate prices for every minute a person spends talking to their loved ones, and if the state passes a law saying you can't do that anymore, pivot and go after the mail. Subvert USPS. Get a kickback from a company that'll give prisoners shitty scans of letters or refuse to deliver it because it was flagged for drug contamination by a machine with a 70% false positive rate, force them instead to send texts at extortionate rates through their proprietary app.

Put them in an environment with a bunch of other people with social issues and force them to compete for resources. Give them no mental healthcare. If they are victimized by other prisoners, punish the victims with solitary confinement. Transfer people around so they can't form meaningful long-term friendships. Tell them that once they get out, it will be illegal for them to talk to any of the people they meet here.

Hire guards who have no qualifications other than a willingness to be a modern day slave overseer or the ignorance to not realize that's what it is, give them complete control over every aspect of other people's lives and tell them those people want to kill them and that any object can be covered in drugs so dangerous that touching them can kill. Allow the guards to traffic drugs into the prison with impunity. Have the guards discourage racial mixing because racial conflict in the prison means the prisoners won't join up against the staff.

You do all of this and you ask if a 20-year-old, who's been in the system since 14, is emotionally mature or psychologically healthy enough to choose to risk their life in exchange for slightly better living arrangements.

You take someone who has probably made some bad decisions, right? And you put them in a place where every detail of every day is decided for them: what they eat, when they eat, when they sleep, where they sleep, what clothes they wear, who they talk to, where they work. Or maybe you give them big decisions that have no right answer. Maybe at the start of the day, you open the cells and they have 10 minutes to decide if they want to be stuck in their cell all day - no shower, no recreation, no library - or go outside and be stuck in genpop all day - no napping, no alone time, no escape if someone is hassling you. You let them decide if they're going to eat breakfast at 3am (because there's too many meal shifts) or sleep in and spend their precious commissary funds on toaster strudel (they have no toaster) or sleep in and not eat even though you're barely giving them 1000 calories a day. You let them start to make decisions about how to spend their day, then you put them on lockdown, take all those decisions away.

You do all this and then you ask if anyone who's spent time in this environment has the decision-making skills to choose to risk their life in exchange for slightly better living arrangements.

All of the incarcerated firefighters in California are 18 or older, and all of them volunteered, but there is no world in which they were adequately prepared to make that decision.

[astrologydray]

Ruler of the 6th through the houses

This is where we get into daily life, service, work, wellness, and routine. Think of it as your “how I get sh*t done” energy — the ruler of your 6th house shows what area of life demands the most effort, structure, or healing🖤.

6th House Ruler in the 1st House

You are your own project.

Your identity is wrapped in your work ethic and wellness. People see you as productive, reliable, and self-improving. You’re the type to biohack, optimize, or self-discipline like a boss. You serve: Yourself, your goals, your growth. Wellness style: Actively engaged with body + health. “My body is my schedule — and my brand.”

6th House Ruler in the 2nd House

You work for stability + values.

You’re motivated by security, comfort, and building something solid. You probably have a slow-and-steady daily rhythm and need to feel grounded in your routine. You serve: Through practical help + financial support. Wellness style: Nourishment, somatic care, massage. “My routine = my resource.”

6th House Ruler in the 3rd House

Your mind is always working.

You thrive on movement, communication, and mental stimulation. You may multitask like a machine and keep a busy schedule. Writing, teaching, or running errands = daily bread. You serve: Through ideas, words, and helpful info. Wellness style: Breathwork, nervous system care, mobility. “My calendar is color-coded chaos — and I love it.”

6th House Ruler in the 4th House

Your home is your office or temple.

You crave comfort and emotional security in your daily rhythm. You may work from home or be drawn to caretaking professions. Wellness comes from emotional safety. You serve: Family, home, emotional healing. Wellness style: Nourishing food, rest, inner child care. “My peace starts at home.”

6th House Ruler in the 5th House

You work with passion or not at all.

You thrive when your work lights you up. You bring creativity to your job, and you may serve others through play, art, children, or entertainment. You’re here to infuse joy into the mundane. You serve: Through performance, love, creativity. Wellness style: Movement, pleasure, artistic release. “If it’s not fun, it’s not sustainable.”

6th House Ruler in the 6th House

You were born for systems, routines + service.

You’re naturally drawn to work, health, and structure. You may have a career in healthcare, healing, or support roles. Routines come naturally — but beware of overworking. You serve: Through consistency, integrity, mastery. Wellness style: Functional, optimized, routine-based. “Structure sets me free.”

6th House Ruler in the 7th House

You show up for others.

You serve through partnerships — whether romantic, business, or client-based. Your work may involve 1:1 relationships, and wellness improves when your relationships are in harmony. You serve: Lovers, clients, collaborators. Wellness style: Balance, connection, mirrored growth. “Your peace = my peace.”

6th House Ruler in the 8th House

You work in the shadows.

You may serve through healing, therapy, finances, or emotional transformation. You’re private about your daily habits and need depth + purpose in your work to avoid burnout. You serve: Through psychological or energetic work. Wellness style: Detox, shadow work, deep rest. “My work transforms me — and others.”

6th House Ruler in the 9th House

You work from the mind and the spirit.

You may serve through teaching, spirituality, law, or travel. Daily life needs meaning. You might crave movement or a higher mission behind the grind. You serve: Through wisdom, beliefs, or worldly perspective. Wellness style: Walking meditations, breathwork, education. “My routine is my ritual.”

6th House Ruler in the 10th House

You turn routines into legacy.

Work is your identity. You’re ambitious, career-oriented, and likely to rise in your field due to your consistency. You might manage others or become known for your service. You serve: Through leadership, professionalism, influence. Wellness style: Structured, goal-driven, visible. “Work hard, shine harder.”

6th House Ruler in the 11th House

You serve the collective.

You may work within communities, collectives, or online spaces. You need freedom and innovation in your day-to-day — and you’re likely to rebel against rigid schedules. You serve: Friends, networks, causes. Wellness style: Group classes, tech tools, unconventional methods. “My work serves the future.”

6th House Ruler in the 12th House

Invisible service, sacred structure.

You work best in solitude, or in healing/behind-the-scenes roles. Your routines may be intuitive or chaotic, and wellness is deeply tied to your emotional + spiritual state. You serve: Spirit, the unseen, vulnerable populations. Wellness style: Sleep, silence, dreams, energetic healing “Sacred rest is my medicine.”

[mullermilkshake]

An unreadable measure

Part 10 <- Part 11 -> Part 12

You and Jinwoo try and get the twins ranked, courtesy of the hunter's association.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem Hunter!reader Tags - Pregnant reader, talks about pregnancy, mentions of medical tests/ needles, pet name, hormonal reader,

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or back to this fic's Master list. >>>

EDIT - I have only watched the anime and haven't gotten round to reading the manhwa yet. Please refrain from spoilers.

You never agreed to meet Jinwoo’s mom and sister until your twelve week scan. Anxiety no doubt.

Jinwoo’s system quest clocked over at thirty out of one hundred. 

Still early into your pregnancy, the twins were growing at the same rate as Hae-in’s pregnancy. Despite a month and a half apart, according to the doctor, Jinwoo was sure she shouldn’t have mentioned that. Odd. You didn’t speak on it though, despite her baiting it like it was some sort of competition. You never bit.

That day, after the scan, you were scheduled to test the mama of the babies in a ditch effort to get some sort of a reading instead of guessing.

Chairman Go’s idea of course.

“This is stupid… how is this even going to work?” Your hand absentmindedly rubbed your visible baby bump, your other lazily pressed to your back.

A short, little man dressed in a smart suit adjusted his glasses and wrote notes on his clipboard. “Well, based on the aura your pregnancy is producing, the Chairman is curious to see if you can produce a score other than your own unreadable measurement. It will give us an idea of what kind of rank your children will be once they are born.”

You huffed and flicked your hair out of your face. “That’s if it actually works, what if it just reads my own score?”

“Block off your aura and only make contact with the sensor using your stomach.”

“How the hell do I do that- oh my god!” Jinwoo lifted you onto his shoulder, high enough so that you didn’t need to reach the meter.

He smiled and ignored the cursing under your breath. You were as light as a feather, and each time Jinwoo levelled up again, he would need to lift you with caution as to not overdo how easy it was.

The man stood back and watched the screen closely, he fiddled with some dial knobs. “Okay, we’re ready. Go ahead and touch it- only with your stomach, nothing else.”

Jinwoo edged towards the meter, holding his breath with each inch. He’d taken note of the babies mana as they were growing even if you couldn’t, and it was only getting more intense with each passing week.

Right now, Jinwoo could sense that if the twins were born with their current mana intact, they were easily upper B-Ranks right now, Maybe even A-Ranks, but that was only a guess.

“We’re going to start the test now, so please hold still.”

You sat upon his shoulder with ease, remaining as still as you could with comfort. Jinwoo stopped as soon as he felt the resistance of your little bump on the meter.

And then it turned on.

The machine hummed and made whatever noises were expected for Jinwoo’s third time standing in that room, and something shifted.

“What? T-That can’t be right…” That man fiddled and spammed the controls. “It’s- it’s unreadable!”

You didn’t react the way Jinwoo expected, more of a slouch if anything. “It’s probably just my mana level you’re reading.”

“N-no… the meter's detecting four separate energy sources…”

“If there’s four, just ignore the two S-Ranks.” It was that simple, Jinwoo didn’t understand his hysterics.

“That’s the thing, Mr Sung… all readings are S-Ranks. I-I can’t tell them apart- it’s making the system overheat, they’re all unreadable!”

“Oh shit.” It was meant to be under your breath, but it wasn’t.

The systems alarm whistled and beeped, airing a warning in the room. Jinwoo set you down and pulled you over to the side getting in between you and the mana meter.

“Turn it off.” He said, commanding the room to the effect of making the man panic further, flicking all kinds of switches. “I said, turn it off.”

“I’m trying!”

The alarms groaned, making the meter tremble and shudder in an invisible icy breeze, emitting smoke from the top of it.

“We have to get out of here.” You left his side and stormed off towards the door that didn’t open. “Why won’t this open?”

“It’s in a system shut down- the whole system’s fried! The room shuts itself off if there’s a fault, it’s to stop further damage to headquarters if the fault causes a fire hazard, it won’t open until the system either cools down or erupts completely!”

“Iron.” Jinwoo called upon his shadow.

He chose Iron due to his raw, tanked strength but also to your own familiarity having met only Igris thus far. He, appeared in his brute fisted glory and hunched over watching you instead of Jinwoo. 

"Who is- What is he doing?" You asked, neither backing away or getting closer.

Jesus… he’s always so distracted. 

Jinwoo pinched the bridge of his nose. “ He's insufferable... Iron. Go and disconnect it before it blows up.”

The shadow nodded and trudged over to the thickened power cable, pulling at it and ripping it out of the wall. 

But the meter didn’t let up.

“It’s still going, it’s going to rupture!” The man ducked and cowered behind the console.

Jinwoo got a hold of you. “I can shadow exchange, keep ahold of me-“

He wasn’t in the room anymore, a split second and the room had disappeared, so did you. The experience was weightless, without any effort and kept him in suspended animation. You had pulled Jinwoo into Royal’s Gatekeeper, floating inside a mana made portal flat against the wall with a viewing hole back through to the room. Iron trudged about the place and covered his face when the meter blew up, casting bits of hard metal and singed plastic everywhere. By some miracle the man by the console survived and Iron morphed back to Jinwoo.

“We should be safe now.” You said, sitting in a position that you almost floated, weightlessly watching.

So beautiful.

He would have told you that too if your nose hadn’t started bleeding right in front of Jinwoo’s eyes. He called out to you, but you’d already stepped back out in to the destroyed and charred plastic covered room. The entire window had blown out, emitting a high pitched winded whistle zipping past on the high floor. The scattered papers from the clipboard were ripped and torn and singed on the edges. 

He said your name again, yet you spoke first. “We didn’t have time to think, so I just acted off of instinct… what is it?”

“Your nose, what’s wrong? Are you feeling alright- are the babies doing something? You used your ability, has it drained your mana?”

You batted him off and wiped your nose, your eyes widening in shock at the red across your hand. “What is… what’s happening?”

“It appears that your babies are using your mana to grow, hence their S-Rank status at three months gestation.”

Jinwoo looked up just as startled as you were. “Chairman Go.”

“I see you’ve destroyed my meter, that was quite a show.”

“It was an accident, Chairman. I think the equipment read it wrong.” You tried to even the playing field, taking accountability.

The Chairman entered the room with his hands hidden behind him, Jinwoo naturally flocked to you, pulling out a tissue to wipe the red from your nose and got in front of you. 

He and the Chairman both mirrored each other, unknowingly sizing the other up in a way that animals did, being in favour of the one who was strongest.

And that was exclusively Jinwoo.

He could obliterate the Chairman quite easily if he wanted to, and he wanted to for not-so-clear reasons. Even so, he also wanted to see how this played out, finding hidden secrets and things in plain sight. There was something bigger at play here, Jinwoo could tell from the jittering in his bones.

“Please, stand down, Hunter Sung. Although the meter will be down for a week or two, I’m thoroughly pleased with the result.” He smiled sweetly, clasping his hands together as though to say, this is just perfect for me.  

“What does that mean exactly?” You asked, emerging from Jinwoo’s guard. “The twins are using my mana- they’re draining me. Is that why I can't sense them? How do you know all this, anyway?”

So you picked up on that too? Jinwoo knew this was all too well thought out, he just never asked the questions until he had something more concrete to go on. You jumped ahead of him once again, a reason for why he was in love with you. Your somewhat dominant side.

“We’ve only seen this once before in Japan. It was the same case there for the mother, and apparently they can use the mother's mana. It disguises their own mana as they'll use the more accessible mana to their disposal. That being said we only have observations to go on, we’re all still pretty much in the dark. it's purely anecdotal... But I think they’ll be some people who’d like to meet you both, but for now, I think further tests are essential.”

You scoffed. “What sort of tests? You’re not prodding me or these babies with needles.”

“No needles, I assure you. Some mana tests and other observations once they’re here. That’s all.”

Tests and examinations needed for Jinwoo’s children? Poking and prodding them while they’re so tiny and vulnerable just to see the rare genetics passed down from their mother? Not to mention anything they could inherit from Jinwoo.

Like hell would anyone treat them like guinea pigs.

“Not a chance.”

“Jinwoo?”

He maintained eye contact with the Chairman, not you. “I said no. No testing those babies, they’re babies . Leave them alone and observe them from afar.”

“Jinwoo-“

“We can discuss this at a later date, for now, go and get some rest.” The Chairman addressed you directly. “You look exhausted. A mother-to-be needs plenty of rest.”

You didn’t respond, not at first, anyway. Not until the Chairman left. “What the hell did he say? I look tired- what does that even mean?”

“W-well-“

“He means nothing by it.” Jinwoo eyed the man from behind the console, emerging back into the room.

“What? What does he mean, Jinwoo?”

Jinwoo knew better than to offend someone who was exhausted and pregnant. This man however, was too honest. A fucking idiot.

“The Chairman meant that you look…” His voice trailed off, stepping back from Jinwoo’s narrowed eyes.

“He meant… nothing by it.” 

“O-Of course! I meant nothing by it- she- you look healthy and glowing!”

“Good man.” 

You sighed heavily, rubbing your stomach before cursing something under your breath. Then, you walked right out of the room in a stomp, leaving the weak little man in Jinwoo’s company.

And that compulsion came back.

Jinwoo grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and clenched his fist tight around the material. “Think before you speak. If you speak out of turn and upset her again, you’re going to wish you died in that explosion.”

“Y-Yes, Mr Sung- I won’t say anything at all, I promise!”

Jinwoo dropped him on the floor and left the room to follow you, skipping a step of the stairs up towards the apartment. Igris was nearby, hovering around up there as near to you as your aura would allow. By the time Jinwoo arrived, he noted how your energy still hadn’t changed, he could sense it from the front door all the way to the en-suite bathroom.

You were really emotional.

Jinwoo called your name softly, hoping it might change your mindset or do literally anything else besides upset you further.

It didn’t. Well, you didn’t respond.

He called out to you again and waited, edging closer to the bathroom until the sound of your stifled sobbing permeated the bathroom door through the crack.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” The pet name slipped out.

You didn’t react to it. “I’m exhausted!”

Little black streaks dribbled down your cheeks from the waterlogged mascara, eyes swollen and puffy, nose all pink and adorably blushed. Jinwoo rubbed the marks away from your cheeks the best he could, moving the slick strands of hair from your damp face.

“You could have fooled me.” He said. “I happen to think you look beautiful.”

“No. You’re just saying that. I look horrible and bloated and I’m a big mess!” The flood gates opened and you couldn’t stop crying.

Jinwoo wanted to say something had the babies aura not spiked, it stopped him in his steps. Like they were reacting to you, but it could have been an array of reasons, maybe they were moving about or kicking and you couldn't feel it? Despite that, he monitored it with each passing moment, but never said anything to you.

I guess I’ll be dealing with this a lot for the next seven months. 

“You don’t look bloated, or horrible. But I think it has been a long day, and I think we should leave seeing my mom and go lay down. I can get you whatever you want, or everything for you,” Jinwoo took it a step further and ran his hand over your baby bump. “And whatever these two need, you’re going to have cravings soon, right?”

“I am…” It didn’t stop you crying, but took your mind off things. “I’m getting cravings already- I just wasn’t sure what-“

“Shh, shh…” You let him embrace you, stroke your hair lovingly to soothe you. “We can trial it. See what you like and don’t like, then I’ll buy one hundred of it, okay?”

“Okay…” Sniffling into his shirt, you clung to it. “Okay… that sounds good.”

Just like that, you were starting to rely on him. Jinwoo wanted to give you the entire world, to you and the babies.

All he wanted from you was that love in return, eventually. The rest of the world could leave for the day, including the chairman and whatever intentions he had.

Jinwoo could sort it later. You and his babies were the top priority.

Part 10 <- Part 11 -> Part 12

If you would like to be tagged, please let me know! Thanks so much for all the support on this likes, reblog and comments appreciated! ❤️

Tag list - @bubera974 @snowy-violet @sky2lar @starrynights23x @minh907

@yessirr7 @aussie-boys-wife @yihona-san06 @mashiromochi @daiyanomochi

@justatimidcreator @alia-17 @otomegamesforlife @m00n-estelle @towomatos

@stormnightingale @johnnysactualgf @solarisstarrsolomonsbeloved @johnnysactualgf @notleclerc

@minkuro @misakicchi @lovingyeet @soft-dots @gina239

@sabrina-senpai @tsukimoon-chan @afkmylajah @livelaughlovekuni @keiva1000

@delusionillusion322 @dreamingoftomorrow @gina239 @blxuqueenie @stardust0709

@chahaezii @athanasia10 @crutoyu @thetruepair @lostpsycho13

@dragoonsuki @sashagaming1012 

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhwa. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[leyavo]

Hacker!reader that joined the military as a political prisoner. You were found as part of a freedom fighter movement, forced to use your skills for a small military operation in exchange for prison or worse sent back to your strict cult family.

You now work as a hybrid technician in the field, still got a very short leash though. - tracker injected into the back of your arm. Maybe one day you’ll earn that freedom you desperately seek.

Freedom, is something you’ve fought for years. Escaped the cult you grew up in using technology. Nothing but a busted up phone and a concussed group leader, the type of grit and determination Captain Price likes when he reads your file. Slipped into databases and breached security systems like you’ve built them yourself. All in the name of bringing down shady operations and war criminals just like John Price.

He’s a lesser evil though if you want to help the greater good.

Taught to obey the same hand you were trying to break, the system you were trying to destroy. And your superiors all knew that, even gave you special treatment (not that type though). You’re more of a feral dog, a stray tied up to a lamp post and made to beg for scraps.

That’s how you get your call-sign, Lucky. Some sick, twisted joke of how your superiors liked to remind how fortunate you were. “Lucky, you’re still breathing…” when you’re in fact on the floor, your blood dripping on the training mat as a lieutenant looms over you. “Lucky I ain’t knocking you out.”

“Should think yourself lucky, I’d rather you rot away in a cell.” - everyone telling you to be thankful, to kiss the hand that trapped you. To play the good little soldier and be rewarded with a decent meal, a bed or a moment of silence without someone breathing down your neck.

The task force 141 changes that though, your handler pissed at how they can go above him and request your presence without him. Doesn’t stop him from controlling the situation. How your hands are cuffed to the bar on top of the table, left to wait five hours till John Price enters the interrogation room. A thick file thudding in front you, yours.

“This just might be your lucky day,” John says, flicking your file open and jabbing your mugshot clipped to the first page.

Gone is the handler whose boot presses on the back of your neck, the one to keep you down. You’re thrusted into the base with buzzing computers, whirring drones and you can’t help but lean into the hum of machines lining the task force’s room.

No, you’re new handlers a ghost. A silent observer that watches you from afar and gives you space to work. Lieutenant Riley, you don’t know if he cares about you really. Like it’s all part of the job working with the enemy. Doesn’t speak to you much, only barking orders out in the field or when he requests some research, intel.

The only one you can stand is sergeant Garrick, some sort of moral compass and voice of reason within the team. Someone you learnt to stay on side with as he’d probably be the only one questioning your wellbeing. Johnny Mactavish or Soap as they call him, too brash…the type your mother would wash their mouth out, make them hold the bar of soap until they stop speaking with such disgusting tongue. He gets the job done though, pulled you out by the scruff of your top a few times whilst bullets were flying.

Captain Price though, he’s oddly fair and you convince yourself it’s his way of manipulating you to do what you’re told. Not used to scheduled check-ins on your work or the good job he throws your way when you do what’s asked of you. In the back of your mind though you remind yourself what these people really are…

[Masterlist]

[rafeandonlyrafe]

in sickness and in health

words: 1k

warnings: doctors office, physical appointment, needle warning!, fear of needles/medical stuff, established relationship, husband!rafe, soft!rafe pregnancy cw

“you ready to go?” rafe asks, swinging his car keys around his finger.

“uh, yeah…” you look down to your own hand, keys clenched in your first.

“you wanna drive?” rafe asks, frowning. you never drive your own car when he's available.

“um… i just figured you wouldn't wanna go.” you shrug. “its just a physical.”

“it's still the doctors, and the doctors make you nervous.” 

rafe isn't wrong, you're not a fan of anything medical, but it's just your family doctors office, not the hospital or anything too scary.

“don't you have golf with top?” you scheduled your appointment for the same time he usually meets up with topper at the country club, thinking it would be a good time to pop in real quick.

“i canceled when you put your appointment on the calendar. do you not want me to come?” rafe frowns.

“no, i do! i just figured-” you shrug. “i don't know, you wouldn't want to.”

“what did our vows say baby?” rafe asks.

“huh?” 

“in sickness and in health. im coming.” rafe takes the car keys out of your hand, tossing them back into the bowl on your entrance table. “and im driving, of course.”

--

“thanks for coming with me rafey.” you squeeze his hand, eyes on the clock as the minutes tick by. you arrived early for your appointment, only to be told the doctor was running behind. “even though im not really sick.” you giggle at how seriously he takes his vows.

“i would never expect you to go alone, honey.” rafe simply says. “now, do you want me to go in the room with you or should i wait out here? i don't mind either way.”

“um… actually can you come in with me?” you ask shyly, feeling your cheeks heat up. “i need to get my flu shot and you know how much i hate needles.”

“shit, a shot?” rafe leans forward to pick his water bottle up off the table, thrusting it into your hands. “here, hydrate. don't want you passing out.”

“thanks.” you take a sip of the water. rafe came with you once long before you were married to get blood drawn, and you think you traumatized him by passing out right after the needle left your arm.

“do you want me to get a snack from the vending machine, love?” rafe questions, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“no, but do you think we could go out to lunch after?” you pout out your bottom lip, although there really is no reason to as rafe quickly agrees.

--

“and you're alright with your husband being in here?” the doctor asks.

you nod enthusiastically. “yup! i asked him, since im gonna be getting the flu shot.”

your doctor nods, remembering from last year how much you hated the needle. “alright, i will just have you sit in here mr. cameron for a moment while we get a urine sample.”

you feel extra thankful for accepting the water from rafe in the waiting room as you're easily able to fill up the sample cup before placing it in the cupboard.

“alright, the labs will get to work on it right away.” your doctor nods. “will probably be done by the end of your appointment, if not soon after.” 

“awesome.” you nod, heading back into the exam room, smiling when you realize rafe was patiently waiting for you to return.

the doctor goes through your normal exam, asking you questions and checking your vitals, making notes to add to the system later.

“alright, it all looks good. why don't you hop up on the table and we can do your flu shot?”

“okay.” you swallow heavily, looking to rafe who stands with you, gripping your hand and allowing you to press your face into his chest.

“don't tell me when.” you say, muffled by rafes shirt. “just do it.”

you feel the poke and stiffen out, letting out a small sound that hurts rafes chest to hear, holding you tighter as the doctor withdrawals the needle and covers your arm with a bandage.

“all done! you did great. just lay down.” 

you lay back on the bed, eyes closing as you breath, thankfully not feeling the urge to pass out.

“im going to have a nurse bring you in some crackers and apple juice while i get your results back from the urine test.”

“thank you.” you manage to mumble as your doctor leaves.

you blink your eyes open to look up at rafe. “that sucked, but thanks for being here.” you smile, rafe bending down to press a quick kiss to your lips as the nurse comes in.

“i got ‘em.” rafe holds the two cups, allowing you to pick out a cracker and eat it before realizing how dry your mouth is. you manage to sit up, head still slightly dizzy, to take a sip of juice, the sugary drink instantly making you feel better.

you keep snacking until your doctor returns, a stack of papers in her hands.

“feeling good?” she questions, to which you quickly nod.

“yes, thank you.”

“so, just to quickly go over your results…” she frowns when she looks at the paper. 

“what's wrong?” rafe asks.

“i need to ask you to step out of the room, mr. cameron.” she says.

“no!” you squeal, before quickly composing yourself. “no, i want him here. especially if something is wrong.”

“your results look good except for an elevated hormone called hcg. it's a sign of pregnancy.”

“im… im pregnant?”

“yes. the results indicate more than three weeks pregnant.”

you look up to rafe, watching him process the information as tears well in his eyes. he finally looks down at you as tears fall.

“baby… we are gonna be parents.”

you let out a sob, not even realizing that you were already crying as well as rafe pulls you into a tight hug.

“ill give you guys a moment.” the doctor quickly steps out of the room.

“oh my god.” you press your hands against your stomach. “oh my god!”

“im… im so happy.” rafe laughs, pressing a kiss against your lips.

“oh rafe, you're gonna be the best daddy ever.” you cup his cheek, pulling him back in for a more intense kiss.

sfw taglist: @winterrrnight @bejeweledreverie

[astroxrion]

I’m going to tell you how to come up with the millionaire ideas you’ve been begging to receive … based on Mercury in astrology⭐️

W.S.

Below 🥭🌙⭐️🧚‍♂️

Mercury in the 1st House

Millionaire ideas come from personal instinct and direct experience. Speak your truth, brand your identity, and trust that people buy from clarity. Execute by being visible, vocal, and bold. Share your story publicly and turn your name into a movement.

Mercury in the 2nd House

Big ideas come when you notice what people truly value but can’t access. Think tangible, long-lasting solutions. Execute by building slow, with stable systems. Package what’s practical and turn reliability into revenue. Monetize what holds real weight

Mercury in the 3rd House

You’re a natural idea machine. Million-dollar thoughts come when you connect concepts others miss. Execute by writing, teaching, networking, or creating info-based content. Monetize your mind by turning conversation into a business model

Mercury in the 4th House

Your ideas spark through emotional memory, family systems, or inner healing. Create from what felt missing in childhood. Execute by building intimate brands or businesses around home, safety, or nostalgia. Your legacy starts where your healing began

Mercury in the 5th House

Your genius is creative. Millionaire ideas come through play, performance, or art. When you’re having fun, you’re channeling gold. Execute through personal branding, entertainment, or bold launches. Build your empire from joy. Lead with flair.

Mercury in the 6th House

Your ideas scale when you solve real daily problems. Systems, schedules, health, and workflow are your genius zones. Execute by turning routines into frameworks or services. Precision becomes profit when you productize what keeps people moving.

Mercury in the 7th House

Big ideas come through conversation, partnership, or client insight. You spot gaps in relationships or service. Execute through co-creation, brand deals, legal-based offers, or consulting. Millionaire success comes when you lead through connection

Mercury in the 8th House

Your ideas strike when you dive into taboo, money, power, or psychology. You see what others fear. Execute through depth work—investing, transformation, intimacy, or hidden knowledge. Monetize shadows by turning them into strategy and truth

Mercury in the 9th House

Ideas land when you teach, travel, or expand thought. You’re here to globalize wisdom. Execute through publishing, coaching, or philosophy turned product. Your voice is your passport. Scale by spreading your beliefs far beyond the familiar

Mercury in the 10th House

Big ideas spark when you think about impact and leadership. You naturally create legacy-driven models. Execute through public-facing platforms, structured launches, and long-term planning. You’re here to turn strategy into empire

Mercury in the 11th House

You think like the future. Millionaire ideas come through technology, community, or collective needs. Execute by going digital, building networks, and disrupting stale systems. Vision pays you when you make it accessible and scalable

Mercury in the 12th House

Ideas arrive in dreams, symbols, and silence. You channel what others overlook. Execute through art, film, spirituality, or subconscious healing. Your path is ethereal but real. Turn your private inner world into something others can feel and follow

[bullet-prooflove]

Love & Duty: John Carter x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @anna-bailey @ofsoapsuds @queenslandlover-93 @gemofspace

Summary: John's recovery at Gamma's leads to friction in your relationship due to a laundry disagreement.

Companion piece to:

Dreamer (NSFW) - John dreams of you when he's with someone else.

Little John - You try to keep John's mind off the task at hand.

The First One Is Always The Hardest - You comfort John after the death of a patient.

Forget-Me-Nots - John wakes up hung over in a strange bed and with an unexpected memento of the night before.

Speak Your Truth - John speaks his truth in the aftermath of a tragedy.

Trauma - John makes a realisation after his confession.

Fever - John gets more than he bargained for when he attends a friend's stag party in a Chicago Speakeasy.

Minx (NSFW) - John had no idea he had such a deviant little minx on his hands.

Always - You and John discuss the reasons behind your dancing.

Diamonds - John's friend and rival makes you an offer you can't refuse.

The Stethoscope - John's world is turned upside down when he finds your stethoscope in his locker.

Elderberry Wine - You come home to find John waiting for you.

Sex, Lies and Cocaine Dreams - John takes his revenge on the man that shattered your dreams.

By The Grace of God - An unexpected ally goes to bat for you during your beard hearing.

Choices - You and John discuss your options moving forward.

The Sexual Revolution (NSFW) - You decide to give John a private show before the event.

A Love Story - Your performance sparks an unexpected conversation with Gamma.

The Problem With Winning The War - The problem with winning the war is that you don't expect the second attack.

Mack The Knife - You come face to face with a nightmare in John's apartment.

The Merry Go Round - Reality starts to crash down on you in the wake of your recent trauma.

Rounds - John's his first thoughts are of you upon waking up from surgery.

It’s the panties that are the final straw for you.

The fact you open the top drawer of John’s dresser to find them freshly laundered. Each pair washed, ironed and folded into perfect squares that slot just nicely next to John’s boxer shorts.

You’d meant to do your laundry yesterday but you couldn’t find the damn machines in this place and none of the staff were forthcoming because they severely dislike the interloper who is wreaking havoc on their carefully implemented systems.

Your schedule is problematic for them especially with the night shifts, it’s even more problematic for you because you spend two hours a day commuting to Oak Brook so you can spend time with John while he recovers.

When Gamma initially asked you to stay over to keep an eye on him you’d thought it was an excellent idea. In theory it was, you just didn’t realise there was so much regulation involved.

From the cook who is so fiercely protective of her kitchen, resenting the fact you try to make your own sandwiches, to the butler you rouse everytime you turn up at the door at  5:30am, to the maid who clears up your textbooks, making you lose your place time and time again.

None of it is their fault. They each have their own mechanisms and here you are disrupting the well-oiled machine that is the Carter household.

The truth is… you are struggling here. Not just with your studies or the commute but with the level of wealth and opulence you wake up to every day. You can’t relax, you can’t destress, you can just feel this tenson, building inside of you.

You understand that this is the place that John needs to be right now, to recover, to heal but honestly, you don’t want to be here.

You especially do not want a stranger washing your underwear.

“It’s not a stranger, it’s Magda-” John laughs it off that morning as he reads the newspaper. You’ve just come off the night shift from hell and yet again the cook has shooed you out of the kitchen because you’d tried to make your own toast.

Breakfast is promptly at 7am, she’d chided you, I thought you’d know that by now.

You do know that, you also know you’re ravenous because the last thing you ate was an energy bar at ten thirty the night before.

“-who I don’t know.” You remind John. You’re beginning to realise he’s a different person when he’s surrounded by this privilege. All of this, it’s normal to him because it’s the way he’s been raised but it’s not to you, it makes you feel confined, like a bird trapped within a gilded cage. “Magda is a stranger to me and she’s touching my underwear, the maid is moving my text books and the cook, she-”

“- is trying to keep you on a proper eating regime with the rest of the household. Things will even out when you’re back on a normal schedule-”

“No it won’t because I’ll be leaving the house at 6am to make my shift at 7am which is when you all have breakfast and if I can’t use the kitchen before then…”

You will lose your fucking mind. It’s already starting to happen, you can feel it the longer this conversation goes on.

“OK I see the problem, well I’ll talk to Cheffy and rectify that as for the laundry thing. You’re just not used to having people take care of you…”

“No.” You retort, meeting his gaze fiercely. “I’m not used to having people do things for me. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t really see the difference.” He says turning the page and you feel something inside of you implode because he way he says it. You can tell he really fucking doesn’t. He doesn’t get that you are sacrificing your sanity right now to spend time with him, that you’re here because you love him, because want to take care of him anyway you can.

“One is out of love and the other out of duty.” You tell him as you rise to your feet. “And if you can’t tell the difference then why the hell am I killing myself being here?”

You don’t plan to walk out, your body just moves on it’s own accord, going through the motions. Collecting your overnight bag, your text books, your jacket. You’re out the door before he’s even on his feet because the injury, it effects his mobility. He doesn’t have a chance in hell of catching you, not with that walking stick he relies on.

You slam the door as hard as you can on the way out, not giving a fuck who it wakes up or how he explains your absence.

You spent the hour long drive back home with Alanis Morrisette blaring out the speakers of your car as you inch through morning traffic.

When you finally step inside your apartment it’s like you can breathe for the first time in weeks. You cannot explain how good it feels to stand in your own kitchen and eat peanut butter out of a jar in just a Blondie t-shirt and a pair of black panties. You don’t have to worry about offending anyone, about using the wrong fucking spoon, you can just enjoy the moment.

Before you go to bed you lay out your study books across on the kitchen table ready for the tomorrow, turned to the page you need, safe in the knowledge that no one will touch them, that they won’t be moved.

This is what you’ve missed, this freedom, this ability to do what you want when you want.

Money, you realise it solves a lot of problems but it doesn’t make you happy, not really.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[hamilton-here]

𝒫𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝒫𝑜𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓈

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Here’s another one-shot. Enjoy. I made changes to race dates to make it a bit different. Also after the performance by Ferrari at Imola…I need therapy. Lots of love xx

Summary: A slow-burn romance blossoms between Lewis Hamilton and new grounded physiotherapist during F1, where healing touches turn into something far more intimate.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2024 Barcelona – Day Eleven of Testing

The silence in the motorhome was deafening.

Not the kind laced with comfort or familiarity, the kind that wraps around two people like a warm blanket when words aren’t needed. No. This silence was different. It was sharp. Uneasy. The kind that settled between two people who didn’t quite know what to do with each other yet. It didn’t hum it throbbed. Uncomfortable and persistent, like static in the air that refused to clear.

You stood near the counter, clipboard clutched loosely in one hand, pretending to check his hydration schedule for what had to be the fourth time. You weren't fooling anyone not even yourself. You weren’t reading. The rows of data blurred into meaningless numbers, just a distraction from the heavy energy taking up space in the room.

Across from you, Lewis sat hunched over at the edge of the massage table, elbows resting on his knees, phone in hand. He scrolled lazily, without purpose, and didn’t look up once when you entered. No greeting. No eye contact. Just the blue-white glow of the screen reflected in his unreadable eyes.

You had gotten used to the silence over the past few weeks, or at least you told yourself you had. But today, it hit differently. Sharper. Heavier. It filled every corner of the motorhome, settling into your bones, and for the first time since you joined the team, it made your hands tremble.

The way he was sitting tense and folded into himself told you everything. Shoulders drawn up, jaw tight, neck stiff from more than just physical strain. He hadn’t relaxed once since stepping inside. Not even in his own space. That said something. That screamed something.

You cleared your throat quietly. “Okay. Ten minutes on the Normatecs, then we’ll work through active recovery for your hamstrings. That sound alright?”

Nothing. Not a word. Not even a nod.

You moved automatically, rolling out the compression sleeves, checking the connections, setting the timer. The machine hummed to life with a low, rhythmic buzz just one more noise filling the space he refused to break.

He didn’t help. He never did. Since the first day, he’d made it clear you were to do your job while he did his best to pretend you didn’t exist. He wasn’t cruel, not exactly. Just absent. Disconnected in a way that left you wondering whether your presence irritated him, or if he just truly didn’t care.

You crouched beside him, guiding the first sleeve gently over his leg, careful not to let your fingers linger longer than necessary. You were allowed to touch him hell, that was your job but every movement still felt like a negotiation. Like the wrong brush of skin would shatter whatever fragile boundary existed between professional and personal.

Still nothing.

“Hydration levels are low again,” you said, your voice quieter now. Less clinical. Less sure. “I left a new blend in your bottle. Less sodium, more potassium. Should help with the cramping you mentioned yesterday.”

That made him glance up.

Just a flicker.

His eyes deep, dark, and exhausted met yours for half a second. Flat. Impenetrable. Then they dropped again, back to the safety of his phone screen.

You looked away too, suddenly feeling exposed.

You had to remind yourself again that this wasn’t personal. That you were simply the replacement. The new name in the system. The girl brought in to fill the void left by someone else.

You weren’t Angela.

You hadn’t known what brand of tea calmed him before a race. You didn’t understand his routines down to the minute. You hadn’t sat beside him in private jets or walked beside him through years of highs and heartbreaks. You didn’t know him like she did.

You weren’t his best friend. You weren’t even welcome.

You were the stranger occupying a sacred space.

And the worst part? You got it.

You weren’t trying to replace her. You respected what she meant to him how could you not? Her absence was still carved into the walls of his life, her name lingering in the silence he so carefully maintained. You were just trying to do your job. To help him heal, recover, push forward.

But lately, it had started to wear on you. The quiet. The resistance. The constant ache of walking on eggshells around someone you were trying your best not to disappoint.

You sat across from him now, folding your hands in your lap as the Normatecs began their slow, pulsing work. The rhythmic tightening and release of the sleeves was the only consistent sound in the room, aside from the occasional chime of a text notification on his phone.

Three weeks.

That’s how long it had been.

Three weeks of showing up every morning with a quiet resolve, hoping for a nod, a word, something. Three weeks of swallowing your pride and doing your job with a kind of quiet grace that no one applauded. Three weeks of watching him build walls and wondering if you’d ever be allowed to climb over them.

You’d heard the whispers in the paddock.

“She’s temporary.”

“He’ll bring someone else in by mid-season.”

“He hasn’t said two words to her.”

You weren’t there for gossip. You weren’t there to be liked.

Still, some small part of you a part that refused to go numb ached to prove them wrong. Not for your ego. But because, beneath the silence and distance, you felt something in him. Something raw. Something bruised. Something still soft underneath the hardness of it all.

You didn’t want anything from him. Not glory. Not attention. Not even friendship, if he didn’t have it to give.

You just wanted to help him carry the weight. Even for a minute.

But you were starting to wonder if he’d ever let you.

"Angela was his person. Anyone else was always going to be second best."

"I give it a month before she hands in her notice."

You weren’t planning to walk away.

Not after everything it had taken to get here.

Too many years spent in lecture halls, your head down over textbooks filled with muscle diagrams and case studies. Too many late nights in university labs testing recovery theories on willing volunteers. Too many unpaid internships, too many times you’d had to fight for a seat at the table while people with half your qualifications were handed the room. But you earned this. You built your reputation working with Olympic athletes who pushed their bodies to the limit, MotoGP riders stitched together with pins and sheer will and Premier League players who treated pain like a background hum.

You were damn good at your job.

But this?

This was something else.

This wasn’t just about stretching out hamstrings and correcting muscular imbalances. This was about surviving the unrelenting emotional chill of one of the most intense men in motorsport. And somehow, today felt colder than ever.

Lewis sat across the room, the only sound in the motorhome the soft hiss of the air conditioning and the intermittent tap of his thumb against his phone screen. His expression was unreadable. But it always was. That was part of the game if it even was one. The unreadability. The distance. The quiet disdain that radiated off him like static.

He hadn’t looked at you once since you walked in.

You cleared your throat, keeping your voice professional, steady. “Anything feel tight?”

No response. Not even a blink.

You glanced down at your clipboard, scanning over yesterday’s notes just to fill the silence. “I noticed some stiffness in your right calf during cooldown. You were compensating on your push-off stride.”

Still nothing.

Your heart beat just a little faster, but you didn’t let it show. You shifted your weight, pen tapping softly against the clipboard.

“I can adjust the therapy plan if—”

The sound of his phone clacking against the bench made your sentence die in your throat.

Your eyes snapped up.

He was staring at you now finally but not with interest. Not with curiosity. With irritation. Cold and sharp, like he was already regretting the effort it took to acknowledge your existence.

“You don’t have to talk so much.”

You froze.

Not in fear.

In shock.

It was the first full sentence he’d spoken to you since the first day you met. And it was spoken like a command, not a comment. Flat. Dismissive. Almost bored.

Your lips parted slightly, the instinct to defend yourself flaring, but no words came out. You inhaled slowly through your nose, grounding yourself in professionalism, not emotion.

“I’m trying to help,” you said quietly. Controlled. Precise.

He looked at you again, slower this time, his eyes narrowing. His silence stretched long enough that you started to wonder if he was going to speak at all. And then, with a sigh that sounded far too tired for the hour of the day, he said, “I didn’t ask for help. I asked for silence.”

It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t even particularly harsh.

But it sliced through the air like a scalpel.

You stood there, clipboard still in hand, spine straightening almost involuntarily. You weren’t one for confrontations not in your professional setting. But something about the way he said it, the complete and casual dismissal of you as a person, made the words rise in your throat before you could stop them.

“Well,” you said, tone clipped, tight but not disrespectful, “if you want to avoid tearing your muscles or aggravating your already overworked hip flexors before the weekend, you’ll need more than silence.”

That got his attention.

He blinked, then tilted his head just slightly, as if genuinely surprised you’d spoken back. Like he’d expected you to nod, apologise, and go mute. His lips didn’t move, but the silence shifted. It felt heavier. Denser. As if something in the room had changed.

You didn’t flinch.

You met his gaze, held it, even when his expression darkened by a fraction. You didn’t back down. You’d worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to let one man no matter how many trophies he had make you feel small.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he leaned back against the bench, arms folding across his chest with slow, practiced ease. Like he was done with the conversation. Like you were a fly buzzing in his ear, not worth the swat.

Fine.

You returned to your notes without another word, pretending to study the page even as a lump formed slowly at the base of your throat.

You wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not for him.

You’d learned a long time ago that in high-performance sport, the ice wasn’t always in the therapy rooms. Sometimes, it wore racing suits and sat across from you like you were the one out of place.

The rest of the session was mechanical. You asked questions basic ones, required for your notes. He ignored most of them. Gave one-word answers when silence no longer sufficed. When you gently adjusted the Normatec sleeves on his calves, he shifted away like your touch was something unwelcome, a necessary evil he had to endure.

You thought maybe the first week had been the worst, when he’d barely acknowledged you, when his eyes would scan the room and deliberately skip over where you stood.

But this was worse.

Now he saw you and still treated you like nothing.

The session ended with no goodbye. No eye contact. Just the quiet sound of a zipper as he pulled his hoodie over his head, grabbed his phone, and walked out like you hadn’t just been in the same room for forty-five minutes.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stayed where you were for a moment, standing in the middle of the room, arms limp at your sides. Then, slowly, you knelt down, packed away the Normatecs, disinfected the table he’d barely touched, and made quick, efficient notes in his recovery log.

He was gone five minutes before the debrief even ended. You didn’t need to ask why. You’d stopped asking questions you knew he wouldn’t answer.

The ache in your chest was familiar now. Low-grade and dull, like an old bruise still tender if pressed too hard.

But you didn’t press it.

You stood, squared your shoulders, and rolled your tension out of your neck like you’d instructed a thousand others to do.

You weren’t here to make friends. You weren’t here to be liked.

You were here to do your job. And whether Lewis Hamilton wanted to acknowledge it or not, you were damn good at it.

“Hey.”

The voice startled you from your concentration, slicing cleanly through the silence. You looked up from your tablet, where notes about hydration levels and muscle fatigue blinked softly on the screen. Marc, one of the performance engineers, was leaning through the side door of the motorhome, his expression somewhere between teasing and concerned.

“He, uh…didn’t throw anything at you today, right?” he asked, one brow raised.

You gave a quiet laugh, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “No flying water bottles. Just the usual soul-crushing silence.”

Marc stepped in fully, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click. He tossed you a protein bar, and you caught it out of reflex. “You holding up?”

You nodded; the smile you gave him automatic but grateful. “Trying,” you admitted.

He studied you for a moment, then sat down on the edge of the massage table, the one Lewis hadn’t touched today. Or yesterday. Or, if you were being honest, much at all this week.

You’d gotten used to this people stopping by to check on you when they thought no one else was watching. Little signs of solidarity. A spare espresso left on your station with no name attached. A folded towel you hadn’t placed there. A toolbox casually moved closer to block Lewis’s line of sight whenever his glares got particularly cutting.

Even Toto had surprised you once during a track walk. He’d murmured a soft “Hang in there” as he passed by, the weight of his hand on your shoulder more grounding than you expected. It wasn’t pity not exactly. It was more like shared understanding. Everyone here had felt the sting of Lewis’s coldness at one point or another. The difference was that you were now expected to survive it day after day, from a front-row seat.

Marc unwrapped his protein bar, chewing thoughtfully as he leaned forward. “You coming to the team dinner tonight?”

You shook your head. “Still have to finish reports. Adjust the physio plan for Saturday.”

He gave you a pointed look. “You know he’s probably not reading those, right?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you said, voice quiet but firm. “They’re still my responsibility.”

Marc exhaled slowly through his nose, then nodded like that answer was better than anything he could’ve come up with. “If you change your mind, we’ll save you a seat.”

You offered him a small smile, then returned to your notes. He left without another word, the silence resettling around you like a heavy curtain.

Hours passed. The paddock emptied in waves, the once-busy energy fading until all that was left was the occasional creak of a door, the buzz of a security golf cart outside. You stayed. Of course you did.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, a resistance band looped around your feet as you stretched absently, reviewing your schedule on your tablet. The only light came from the hallway, casting a soft golden glow across the otherwise darkened room. There was a stillness now that felt sacred this was the time you usually got the most done, when you didn’t have to brace yourself for the way Lewis would walk past you like you didn’t exist.

Until the door opened.

You startled. Just slightly. Enough that your body tensed before you even looked up.

Lewis.

He stepped inside slowly, hoodie up, hands buried deep in his pockets. His eyes landed on you immediately. You couldn’t read the expression in them only that he hadn’t expected you to be here. Then again, you hadn’t expected him either.

“I thought you left,” you said, voice cautious but neutral.

His gaze moved over you quickly - your posture, the tablet on your lap, the stack of charts on the bench. Then back to your face.

“Could say the same to you,” he replied, flatly.

You started to rise, more out of instinct than necessity, but he waved a hand. Not rude. Just dismissive. Like he couldn’t be bothered with the formalities.

“You don’t have to. I’m just grabbing something.”

He disappeared into the side room. You heard a few soft zippers, the rustle of gear bags. Silence again. Then, unexpectedly, his voice drifted back.

“You shouldn’t work so late.”

You froze.

It wasn’t just the words. It was how he said them.

Not sharp. Not cold. Just quiet. Measured. Almost human.

You blinked, unsure how to respond. “Neither should you,” you said finally, your voice steady but soft.

He emerged a moment later with a folded hoodie and a half-eaten protein bar in hand. He paused in the doorway, eyes on you again.

“You do all this for every athlete you work with?” he asked suddenly.

You tilted your head, unsure if this was sarcasm or something else. “All what?”

He gestured vaguely to the clipboard, the notes, the tracking charts on the wall, the pre-race hydration metrics outlined in neat, colour-coded blocks.

“This level of detail.”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “You’re not just any athlete.”

That made him blink. And for a second just a second something flickered behind his eyes. Not softness, exactly. But a shift. A flicker of recognition.

You stood then, brushing off your track pants, already moving to pack up. “Anyway. I’ll be out of your space in a minute.”

He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching you. Not with the disinterest you were used to. This was different. His gaze wasn’t ice. It was flint. Something waiting to be struck.

“You’re not trying to replace her.”

The words came low. Blunt.

You looked up, startled. “Angela?”

He nodded once.

“I’m not,” you said honestly. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t try to. I’m just trying to do the job I was hired to do.”

There was a long pause. A breath caught somewhere between you.

“I didn’t want anyone new,” he murmured. It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even angry. It was tired. Honest.

“I know,” you replied gently.

Your words seemed to land. His jaw flexed once, like he was working through the effort of keeping the rest inside. He looked down at the floor. Then back at you.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said again, but softer this time. Almost like he was giving you a way out.

“If this isn’t worth it.”

You stared at him. Really stared.

“I don’t quit,” you said quietly.

For a beat, nothing. Then barely his lips twitched. Not a smile. But a suggestion of one. A ghost of something real.

He nodded, once. Then turned and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood alone in the dim light, pulse thudding in your ears, the silence he left behind now somehow louder than it had been before.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel so empty.

It felt like the beginning of something shifting.

Maybe not warmth.

But something.

Something real. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2024 Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix, Saturday

Rain slicked the paddock, soaking into every crevice of the asphalt and turning the air into a clinging, grey fog. It wasn’t heavy rain more of a misty drizzle that fell steadily, like the world itself was holding its breath. The sky hung low, dull and oppressive, as if weighed down by tension. You tugged the hood of your team-issued rain jacket tighter around your face, fingers curled into the sleeves as you kept your eyes down and feet quick. The occasional spray from a passing cart splattered against your ankles, and you grimaced, but didn’t stop.

Qualifying had ended just fifteen minutes ago.

P8.

Not terrible. But not what anyone wanted. Not what he wanted.

The Mercedes garage had been a storm of movement by engineers huddled in muttering groups, mechanics shaking their heads as they toweled off tools, data feeds blinking with too many red sectors. You hadn’t spoken to Lewis afterward. You hadn’t needed to. The way he stalked out of the car, jaw clenched so tight you were certain it would crack, had been loud enough.

Still, you moved through the paddock as you always did quiet, efficient, invisible when needed, but never far. You knew where he’d be: in debrief. And you knew where you needed to be after that.

Inside the Mercedes motorhome, the air was warmer, drier, but no less tense. The murmur of voices in the meeting room filtered faintly through the wall, but you stayed where you always did just outside the door. Clipboard in hand. Post-qualifying protocol ready. Notes committed to memory. You weren’t officially inside those briefings yet. You hadn’t earned that access. But you were close enough to be called on at a moment’s notice. Close enough to hear when the tone of the voices shifted. Close enough to feel the emotional fallout before it even hit.

He hadn’t spoken to you since that night.

The one in the motorhome. The strange, silent exchange lit only by hallway light and unfinished sentences. He hadn’t acknowledged it, hadn’t brought it up but you noticed the difference. Subtle, almost imperceptible. His silences had softened. He no longer recoiled from touch. When you adjusted the tightness of the wraps around his wrist, he didn’t pull back. When you altered his hydration balance by a percentage point, he drank it anyway. He didn’t say thank you.

But he didn’t resist anymore.

It was something.

The door to the meeting room swung open twenty minutes later.

He walked out first fast, purposeful, shoulders squared. His race suit hung open around his waist, the fireproofs beneath it clinging to his damp skin. His face was a careful mask, lips pressed in a firm line, eyes like stone. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You simply fell into step beside him, matching his stride, clipboard held to your chest.

He didn’t tell you to come with him.

But he didn’t tell you to leave, either.

He led you to the private treatment room near the back of the motorhome, the one reserved for cooldowns, muscle work, or the kind of days where nothing else helped. You closed the door gently behind you as he dropped down onto the padded bench, exhaling hard through his nose.

He didn’t speak, so you did.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you said softly, knowing how little comfort that kind of truth offered on days like this.

He laughed, short and sharp, but there was no humour in it. “Tell that to the car.”

You didn’t reply. Instead, you let the silence stretch for a few seconds enough to let him breathe, to let the frustration settle without feeding it.

“Take your shirt off,” you said finally, voice calm, clinical.

His head turned, just slightly. Eyes flicked to you. It wasn’t defiant more surprised. As if for the first time, he actually heard you. Not the instruction. The voice beneath it.

But he didn’t argue. He pulled the damp black shirt over his head in one swift motion and tossed it onto the chair beside him. You moved to your station, pulling a small bottle of oil and a warm compress from the drawer, laying out towels with quiet efficiency.

You didn’t let your eyes linger. Not on the ink that curved over the strong line of his shoulders. Not on the flex of muscle across his back or the faint trail of moisture that ran along the side of his neck. You’d worked with world-class athletes for years. You’d seen better physiques. Probably. Maybe.

But it had never felt like this before.

You pressed your thumb into his left shoulder blade, slowly working the knot you already knew would be there. He tensed at first habitual but gradually relaxed into the pressure.

“Tight,” you murmured under your breath. “You’re overcompensating on the left side again.”

“Didn’t feel it on the sim.”

“It’s not the sim,” you replied, matter of fact.

His lips quirked faintly not quite a smile, more like reluctant agreement.

You worked in silence. Long, slow strokes. Careful attention. He wasn’t the kind of man who responded to chatter in moments like this. You could feel his breathing begin to slow as your thumb moved in deliberate circles beneath his shoulder blade, coaxing the strain away.

After a while, he exhaled low, unguarded.

“That bad?” you asked quietly.

“I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. Too honest. Too exposed.

And yet…he didn’t pull away.

He stilled. Then, slowly, his voice found you again. “You take this job very seriously.”

You paused, letting your hands still against his skin. “I take you seriously.”

There was a silence then. A heavier one. Not uncomfortable just charged. His head turned slightly, and you felt his gaze settle on you over his shoulder.

“Why?” he asked. Soft. Sincere. Not a challenge. Just a question from a man who’d stopped expecting genuine answers.

You stepped back, wiping your hands on a towel, heart thudding once in your chest like a warning. You didn’t dodge the question.

“Because you don’t need someone to worship you, Lewis. You need someone to take care of you. And I’m good at that. Whether or not you ever thank me for it.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His jaw twitched unreadable expression flickering across his face like static. Something passed between you in that second. An understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of one.

The silence stretched again.

Then his radio pinged from the corner of the room. A notification. Reality calling him back.

And just like that, the walls came up again.

He moved quickly, standing and reaching for his shirt. You saw the armour slip back into place: the focus, the distance, the self-protection he wore like second skin.

“Race is tomorrow,” he said, voice low, already slipping back into routine.

You nodded. “You’ll need the TENS on your calf tonight. Ten minutes. I’ll set it up in your suite.”

He paused, then nodded. Just once. Small. But real.

And as he left the room, you didn’t follow right away. You stood still for a moment, hands still damp, heart still racing.

Something was shifting.

And this time, it felt like he’d noticed it too. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2024 Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix — Saturday Night

The storm rolled in harder.

By the time you stepped out of the hospitality suite, the mist from earlier had turned into a proper downpour. Cold sheets of rain danced across the emptying paddock, bouncing off slick asphalt, bouncing off puddles that had swelled in uneven places. Lightning flashed somewhere beyond the hills, illuminating the track for a heartbeat before the world slipped back into wet, colourless grey.

You pulled your rain jacket tighter and tucked your clipboard under your arm, head down, boots splashing as you made your way back toward the team’s garage annex. The air felt heavier now—not just with weather, but with something more personal, more charged.

You hadn’t been able to shake the moment from earlier. The way Lewis had looked at you, voice stripped bare when he asked why you cared. The way he’d listened really listened when you told him the truth.

You were halfway across the compound when your earpiece crackled.

Static, then your name. Then, “Lewis had a fall. It’s minor. Nothing broken. But…he slipped on the paddock stairs. We need you.”

You didn’t ask questions. Just turned on your heel and started moving faster.

The compound near the entrance was quieter now, most media cleared out, crews huddled indoors. A few security guards stood at the perimeter; shoulders hunched against the storm. You moved past them quickly, ducking into the treatment wing Mercedes shared with a few other teams for emergencies.

Inside, the air smelled of antiseptic and rain-soaked fabric. Dim lights flickered overhead. And there he was.

Lewis sat on the edge of the physio bench, one elbow on his thigh, head tilted forward, rain still dripping from the ends of his braids. His fireproofs clung to his legs, soaked and rumpled. One leg was slightly bent at the knee just enough for you to notice the stiffness in how he held it.

His expression was neutral. Blank, almost. But you saw it the tension in his jaw, the clench of his hands.

Not pain.

Pride.

Someone had seen him fall. That was worse.

You didn’t ask if he was okay. He would’ve lied. Instead, you moved forward and crouched in front of him, rainwater still beading on your sleeves.

“Let me see,” you said, your voice calm, careful.

He didn’t respond. But he didn’t pull away either.

Gently, you rolled up the bottom of his compression leggings, slow enough not to jostle the muscle. The lighting wasn’t great, but you could already see it a faint swell above the knee, the beginnings of a bruise blooming violet and red along the outside of the joint. Not terrible. But enough.

You palpated the area with trained fingers, watching his face more than his leg. He flinched only once.

“No major swelling. No tear,” you murmured. “But it’s a strain. Keep pushing and it’ll get worse.”

He exhaled through his nose, silent again.

“I can tape it,” you offered, reaching for your kit behind you.

He hesitated. You could feel it a flicker of resistance, not to you, but to the idea of needing help. Of being seen needing help.

“Lewis.” You met his eyes this time, tone soft but insistent. “If you limp during the cooldown lap tomorrow, every camera on the track will catch it. Every headline will be about that, not your race. Let me help.”

A pause. The kind that hung in the air like a balancing scale.

Then, finally he nodded. Just once. But it was enough.

You set to work quickly, hands skilled and precise. The room fell into silence, filled only with the sound of rain thudding against the windows and the soft rip of kinesiology tape. Your fingers moved over the muscle with practiced ease, wrapping the joint just snug enough to offer support without restricting motion.

The air between you felt different now.

Not charged with discomfort or avoidance.

Open.

Tentative, real.

He wasn’t resisting. He wasn’t pulling away. And for someone like him, who held his world so close to his chest, that was massive.

When you finished, you smoothed the last strip into place and sat back on your heels.

“All done,” you said gently, wiping your hands on a towel. “Try standing.”

He did, slowly testing the leg, shifting his weight. His face stayed composed, but you could tell he was impressed. Or maybe relieved.

Then he looked at you. Really looked at you. For a long moment, he just stood there, eyes searching yours as if trying to find the edges of whatever it was, he’d started to feel earlier.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said at last, voice low.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift from silence to honesty.

“In a good way?” you asked, not teasing more cautious.

He gave a half smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but felt more real than anything you’d seen from him in days.

“I don’t know yet,” he said softly.

You returned the smile, just faintly. “Fair enough.”

There was a pause. He turned as if to grab his hoodie from the bench, but then he stopped. The weight of something unsaid pulled him back.

“I’m signing with Ferrari next year,” he said, suddenly, like he needed to get it out before the moment passed.

You froze.

Not just at what he said but at the way he said it. Quiet. Intimate. Like a confession. You hadn’t heard it from the media. No one had. And he was telling you.

Your voice caught in your throat.

“Will you be with me at Ferrari?” he asked, eyes never leaving yours.

You stared at him, blinking once. Twice.

“You haven’t told anyone else,” you whispered, more to yourself than him.

“No.” He said it like a promise. “Not yet.”

You swallowed. Your hands felt strangely cold. “Am I…am I even allowed to be?”

He hesitated then stepped closer. Not much. Just an inch. But it felt like a mile.

“I want you there.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know what to say at first. The weight of that sentence landed somewhere deeper than you were prepared for. You’d spent so long trying to do this job perfectly, quietly, without asking for anything back. And now he was offering something you hadn’t dared hope for.

He wanted you.

Not just for a treatment. Not just for race prep. He wanted you.

You nodded slowly. The words stuck behind your teeth, thick with emotion. “Okay,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Then I’ll be there.”

His eyes softened. Just slightly. But enough.

And outside, the storm kept raging. But in here in this tiny room filled with rain light and tape and unsaid things a different kind of thunder passed between you.

One that felt like the beginning of something. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2024 Last race of the season Miami Grand Prix – Sunday Night. Mercedes Motorhome – Final Debrief

The clinking of champagne flutes echoed in the corridor, muffled behind closed doors. Monaco glittered outside yachts bobbing gently in the harbour, floodlights painting gold across wet pavement. But inside the Mercedes motorhome, everything felt like it was standing still.

You stood next to Lewis, just outside the debrief room, watching him quietly as the team finished their final post-race rundown. He hadn’t said much since crossing the line today - P5 after a long, bruising race. Not the send-off he’d wanted. But still, there was a calm in him. A quiet acceptance.

He glanced over at you now, his lips twitching into something soft. “Feels weird,” he said.

You nodded. “End of an era.”

“Twelve years,” he murmured, running a hand over his jaw. “Twelve years in silver and black.”

You looked at the logo on his race suit black now, but the silver star still prominent on his chest.

“Still suits you,” you said gently.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not for much longer.”

And as if on cue, the buzz started.

Your phone lit up in your pocket. Then his. Then Toto’s voice called from inside the room—“It’s out.”

The press embargo had lifted. The announcement was live.

Lewis Hamilton to join Scuderia Ferrari in 2025.

Through the glass wall, you could already see the team scrolling through their phones, a few shoulders stiffening, some murmuring in surprise even though most of them had known. Still, seeing it official made it real.

Lewis exhaled. Not nervous. Just…letting go.

You stepped a little closer. Close enough that he could feel your presence behind him, even if you didn’t touch.

“They’re going to spin it,” he said, quietly. “They always do.”

“Let them,” you said. “You know why you’re doing this. And you’re not doing it alone.”

He turned to you then, fully, eyes meeting yours with something that felt like gratitude and something else something heavier.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

The motorhome around you was moving now people preparing for the inevitable media storm, public statements, clipped interviews. But for a second, in the eye of it all, it was just the two of you.

“You ready to wear red?” he asked.

You gave a small smile, heartbeat steady. “Only if you are.” ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2025 Preseason – Maranello, Italy

Three weeks until the first race

The first thing you noticed about Maranello was the quiet.

Not silence, exactly there were always distant echoes of movement, clipped Italian voices passing through corridors, the whir of machines in wind tunnels deeper within the complex. But compared to Brackley, this place felt almost reverent. The air was still, like it was listening. Watching. Remembering.

There was history in the walls here. Decades of it. You felt it in the smooth tiles under your boots, in the red banners lining the hallways, in the framed photos of champions and legends — Lauda, Schumacher, Ascari all staring out with the kind of intensity that made you unconsciously square your shoulders as you passed. You weren’t just working for a team anymore. You were stepping into a legacy.

You checked your new badge again, still not quite used to the prancing horse printed in gold beside your name.

Ferrari – Physiotherapist.

It still felt like something out of someone else’s story. But the weight of the lanyard was real around your neck, and so were your footsteps as you turned the corner into the gym.

Lewis was already there.

He stood alone in the centre of the room, red Ferrari training gear clinging to his frame, his back glistening faintly with sweat under the overhead lights. His braids were tied back tight, focused entirely on the punching bag in front of him. Left. Right. Right again. Controlled, powerful strikes. Not angry precise. Calculated. A rhythm more than a release.

He didn’t turn when you stepped in, but his voice met you anyway.

“About time.”

You let out a small, amused breath. “They made me sign five NDAs just to walk past reception.”

That got the barest twitch of his mouth not quite a smile, but not nothing. “Welcome to Ferrari.”

You moved a little closer, your eyes scanning the unfamiliar space. Everything gleamed. The weights, the equipment, even the water bottles looked engineered to impress.

“I still feel like I’ve broken into a museum,” you murmured.

He stepped back from the bag and reached for a towel. “It’s sacred ground.”

“And you’re the new priest?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

He threw a look over his shoulder, equal parts dry and self-aware. “I’m the experiment.”

You set your bag down near the bench, catching the shift in his posture not defensive, just watchful. There was no mistaking the difference in him since last season. He still moved like a fighter, still carried himself like someone who had nothing to prove and everything to protect. But there was a stillness in him now. A quietness that hadn’t been there before.

“So then,” you said, tone light but firm, “let’s make sure you don’t combust under the microscope.”

This time, when he sat, he didn’t hesitate as you stepped in front of him, hands already moving through your practiced checks. His eyes found yours not guarded, but deliberate. As if he wanted you to see the weight he was carrying. Not just from the physical training, but from everything else. The pressure. The shift. The risk.

“You stayed,” he said simply, voice low.

You blinked. “You asked me to.”

“That doesn’t mean much in this business.”

You guided his arm through the first shoulder stretch, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist, where his pulse beat steady and strong. “I’m not in this for the business.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Neither am I. Not anymore.”

There was something in his voice not bitterness. More like exhaustion. The kind that sinks into your bones after years of chasing ghosts through podiums, through airports, through interview rooms where every word gets picked apart by strangers who think they know you.

“You still love it, though,” you asked, quiet. “Don’t you?”

He hesitated, lips parting just slightly. Then he exhaled through his nose, slow.

“I don’t know. I’m trying to remember.”

Your hands stilled on his forearm, eyes meeting his. There wasn’t anything performative in the moment no drama, no weighty declarations. Just honesty. Rare and raw.

Outside the gym window, you could see the edge of the track. Empty now, slick from a light drizzle, but waiting. In just under three weeks, it would roar to life again new season, new car, new team colours. And Lewis would be at the centre of it all. The man in red.

You reached into your kit and pulled out a new mobility band, looping it over your wrist as you refocused.

“We’ll start light today. Test your range of motion, no overload.”

He nodded once. “Lead the way.”

And for the first time since you’d met him all those months ago, back when he barely looked you in the eye unless it was necessary - he followed without hesitation. Without resistance.

He trusted you now.

And as you moved through the stretches, his breath syncing with yours, you felt it. The calm before the storm. The last few quiet moments before everything began again.

Only this time, you were starting together.

A week later

Training in Maranello had settled into its own steady rhythm, a pulse that beat differently from anything you’d known before.

Mornings were for the gym the smell of leather mats, the clinking of weights, the sharp sound of gloves hitting punching bags. Lewis moved through it all with a deliberate intensity, every motion precise and measured, like a man conducting a private ritual. You learned quickly that he didn’t want to be hovered over. Space was his currency. Too close, and he’d shrink inside himself; too far, and he might drift away. The balance was delicate.

Afternoons were spent in the simulator room. The hum of the machines, the glow of screens filled the space. You often sat quietly nearby, not interrupting, letting him immerse himself in every turn, every braking point, every split second that might mean the difference between victory and defeat. When he spoke, it was sparse, clipped a nod, a brief answer. But sometimes, just sometimes, he would glance your way, and you’d catch a fleeting flicker of something like camaraderie.

Evenings belonged to the review sessions. Lights dimmed, the team gathered around monitors replaying laps and telemetry. You watched how Lewis absorbed it all, the tight line of his jaw, the narrowed eyes a fighter learning his battlefield. Your job felt secondary to the mechanics and engineers, but it was no less vital. You knew that without his body, none of the data mattered.

Over the days, you became attuned to the small, unspoken things that grounded him.

The way he liked his towels folded - folded just so, edges crisp and corners sharp. You found yourself arriving before he did, smoothing and folding in silence, a quiet offering to the ritual of his preparation.

The post-ride drink a coconut water blend laced with just the right balance of electrolytes and minerals. It was subtle, but you learned it didn’t upset his stomach the way some recovery drinks did. He never asked for it, but it was always waiting for him, chilled and ready.

You discovered that the TENS unit helped him sleep better when you ran it on his lower back instead of his shoulders, even though he never mentioned it aloud. You just knew the way he shifted, the almost imperceptible sigh as the muscles loosened under the gentle pulses.

He never thanked you. There was no need. His world was built on results, on strength, on silent determination. But you saw it anyway in the smallest cracks of his armour. The way his eyes softened when you handed him the coconut water without a word. The almost imperceptible relaxation in his posture when you massaged the tight knot beneath his shoulder blade. The briefest exhale of relief after a long day.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

His guard fell, inch by inch, day by day. Quiet acceptance. Unspoken trust. The kind of trust that isn’t declared but felt, deep beneath the surface.

Then came the night that changed everything again.

It started like any other evening the team wrapping up in the conference room, Lewis retreating to his suite to prepare for tomorrow’s early start. You lingered nearby, tidying the physio room, when a message buzzed on your phone. Lewis needed you.

The details were vague just that he wanted you to come up. Now.

When you entered the room, you found him seated on the edge of the bed, the harsh white overhead light softened by the low glow of the bedside lamp. His eyes, usually so guarded, were wide and raw tired but resolute.

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, really looked, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist.

No more pretence. No more walls.

Just the two of you, suspended in the quiet aftermath of a long day, on the cusp of something neither of you could yet name.

That night, something shifted subtle, fragile, but undeniable.

And you knew that whatever came next, you wouldn’t be standing on opposite sides of the glass anymore. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Maranello – Friday Night

It was nearly ten in the evening when you finally finished logging Lewis’s data. The spacious physiotherapy facility was nearly empty, the hum of machines long gone, and the lights dimmed low enough to feel like the day was finally winding down. Your shoulders ached from the constant motion, from holding muscles in place and coaxing bodies back from the edge of exhaustion. You were folding up your clipboard and stacking your tools, the quiet settling in like a gentle shroud.

Just as you were about to grab your bag, a soft, hesitant tapping broke through the stillness tap tap, sharp against the glass of the physio room’s window. You turned and found him there. Lewis. Not the blazing star on the track, not the man chased by lenses and headlines. Just Lewis, wrapped in a loose grey hoodie and worn-in joggers, the edges of his face softened by the dim light. His usual fierce intensity was replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable.

“I owe you dinner.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the suddenness, by the low, almost shy tone. “Sorry?”

“That night in Imola last year ,” he said, stepping in just enough to lean against the doorframe. “You stayed late. Taped me up. No complaints.”

You shrugged, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I was doing my job.”

“But I didn’t say it then. I should have.”

You studied him carefully. The protective wall of armour of steel he’d worn for so long was still there, but thinner now. More fragile. More...transparent, like glass instead of iron.

“Are you actually going to feed me or is this your version of small talk?” you teased, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

That coaxed a real smile from him a rare, easy curve of his mouth that lit up the space between you. “I found a place down the road. No cameras. No chaos.”

You hesitated, weighing the sudden invitation against the exhaustion pooling in your limbs. But only for a second. “Let me grab my jacket.”

Outside, the night air was cool and still, the streets around the Ferrari headquarters quiet under the amber streetlights. The walk to the restaurant was short, the sounds of the town muted except for distant laughter and the soft rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.

The restaurant was small and intimate, with wooden tables polished smooth and walls lined with faded photographs and old racing memorabilia. The low lighting cast warm shadows, and the rich smells of basil, garlic, and slow-cooked tomato sauce wrapped around you like a comforting blanket.

Lewis didn’t put on a show. He didn’t act like Lewis Hamilton, global icon. He simply pulled out your chair with a quiet dignity, sat with a relaxed posture that surprised you, and asked what you liked without pretence or celebrity.

You ordered pasta, something simple but full of flavour, and a glass of red wine that stained the rim of your glass a deep garnet. He laughed once, low and genuine, when your fork clinked awkwardly against the wine glass as you tried to pour a delicate sip with too much enthusiasm.

Halfway through the meal, as the conversation meandered from mundane topics favourite movies, childhood memories to more personal territory, you looked at him. Really looked. The glare of competition and the weight of expectations had faded from his eyes. What remained was something rare and unguarded.

“You’re different here,” you said softly, voice barely above the hum of conversation around you.

He tilted his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Good different?”

“Honest.”

Lewis rested his forearms on the table, his fingers idly brushing the curve of his glass as if anchoring himself to the moment. “It’s easier when I’m not being chased.”

“You’re still being watched,” you reminded him gently.

He gave a small shrug, almost imperceptible. “Not by you.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you a quiet understanding that needed no words.

“You want someone to see you,” you said after a moment, “not just watch you.”

His jaw tensed, the muscles tightening like a breath held too long. But he didn’t deny it. Instead, he looked at you really looked like he was trying to figure out how he hadn’t noticed you sooner. Like you were the missing piece in a puzzle he thought he had solved long ago.

And maybe, just maybe, he was. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Late Winter, Barcelona Test Week

The Ferrari motorhome buzzed quietly with the calm energy of a team preparing for battle. Warm light spilled from overhead panels, soft conversations murmured around the hospitality area, and the occasional clink of cutlery echoed faintly through the air. Outside, the cool Catalan breeze whispered against the glass walls, but inside, the atmosphere was insulated — a cocoon of focus and quiet determination.

You were tucked away in the corner of the physio room, methodically organising a fresh batch of resistance bands. The subtle scent of leather and antiseptic mingled in the air, familiar and oddly comforting. Your hands worked with practiced ease, but your attention was partially drawn to Lewis, sprawled on the treatment table like it was a throne rather than a place of rehab.

He looked subdued today not withdrawn or tense, just internal, like the world was weighing heavily behind those calm eyes. He scrolled through telemetry data on his iPad, his fingers flicking through stats and lap times, but you could tell his mind was elsewhere.

“Shoulders tight again?” you asked softly, without looking up.

“Mmh,” he hummed in response, a low sound of distraction. “Didn’t sleep.”

You glanced over your shoulder, curiosity mingling with concern. “The new mattress not working?”

He shrugged, eyes flickering to the ceiling as if searching for answers there. “My brain’s loud.”

Crossing the room with your clipboard in hand, you stopped beside him. The warmth of the motorhome wrapped around you both, the faint hum of the air conditioning mingling with distant voices. “Want me to run the TENS unit?” you offered gently.

There was a long pause. No answer came at first, just the soft flicker of the screen and his shallow breaths. Then, quietly, almost like a request you hadn’t expected, he said, “Only if you’ll stay while it runs.”

Your heart caught. Lewis never asked for anything like that. Usually, he tolerated you, allowed your presence as a necessary part of his routine. But this was different. This was an invitation.

You set the clipboard down carefully, your fingers brushing the surface as you leaned in. “Of course.”

You attached the electrodes to his upper back with practiced precision. As soon as the current hummed to life, Lewis exhaled not a dramatic release, but a subtle loosening of tension that you hadn’t realised was coiled so tightly beneath his skin. Your fingers adjusted the settings, the touch gentle and sure, moving over his skin without the flinch or pull of resistance you’d seen in the early weeks. This was progress.

“Tell me what your brain’s saying,” you murmured, voice low enough that it felt like a secret meant only for him.

He tilted his head toward you, eyes half-lidded, soft and searching. “You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

There was silence, but it wasn’t shutting you out. It was a pause, a moment spent gathering the right words from a place that rarely opened so fully.

“I’m starting over,” he said finally, voice quiet but steady. “Again. Thirty-nine years old, in red. Everyone expects me to prove I didn’t make a mistake.”

You could feel the weight in his words not just the physical strain, but the mental and emotional pressure that came with changing teams, starting fresh under the unforgiving gaze of the racing world.

“I know I can still do this,” he added, voice tightening just slightly. “But I don’t know if they’ll let me.”

You looked at him, steady and certain. “You’re not here to ask permission.” Your tone was soft, but there was steel beneath it. “You’re here to win. They’ll catch up or they’ll fall behind.”

His gaze met yours again not fragile anymore, but tender. Vulnerable, but grounded.

“You always say the right thing,” he said, lips twitching into something like a smile.

“I say what I mean,” you replied, matching his quiet sincerity.

Lewis’s smile grew a little, the first true curve of warmth you’d seen in days. You didn’t say it aloud, but it was clear: since the move to Ferrari, it wasn’t just his muscles that had softened under your care. It was the walls he’d built around himself.

And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to see you not as a replacement, but as someone who genuinely cared.

The next afternoon, the physio room was quiet except for the soft hum of equipment and distant footsteps outside. You were focused on your clipboard, ticking off items from your checklist when Lewis appeared in the doorway.

He held out a coffee cup to you your name scrawled messily on the side. Almond milk, one sugar, and a light dusting of cinnamon crowned the foam exactly as you liked it.

You blinked, caught off guard. This was the first time he’d ever brought you anything like this.

He just shook his head, a small shrug that said, no need to make a fuss, without saying a word.

You tried to keep your expression neutral, tried not to smile. But the warmth in your chest betrayed you, and the corners of your mouth lifted before you could stop them.

Over the next few days, this simple gesture became a quiet ritual. Lewis began showing up without being asked, sometimes with your favourite coffee or a carefully brewed tea in hand. He seemed to know exactly when you needed a pick-me-up before exhaustion could settle in or frustration rise.

You started finding small notes tucked between your equipment or slipped inside your notebook. Some were sweet and sincere, little messages of gratitude written in his usual messy, hurried handwriting - “Thanks for having my back” or “Can’t do this without you.” Others were playful, teasing words that made you laugh softly, the kind of laughter that lingered long after he’d left the room - “Try not to burn down the physio room today, yeah?”

Bit by bit, Lewis peeled back the layers he usually kept so well hidden. You saw flashes of the man behind the driver the quiet humour, the subtle kindness, the moments of doubt and vulnerability he rarely let anyone witness.

And in the spaces between those gestures and glances, something began to grow.

It was slow and subtle, almost imperceptible at first, like the first hint of spring stirring beneath winter’s grip.

Something unspoken, fragile a connection weaving itself quietly between two people learning to trust. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Barcelona – Final Day of Testing

The paddock outside was a chaotic symphony of noise engineers darting between trailers with purposeful urgency, mechanics shouting instructions over the relentless hum of engines winding down, camera crews scrambling to catch their last moments of the week. The air buzzed with adrenaline and exhaustion, punctuated by the sharp scent of burnt rubber and fuel.

But the moment you stepped into Lewis’s private motorhome, the world outside seemed to dissolve completely. The warm, muted light inside wrapped around you like a soft blanket, contrasting the frenetic energy just beyond the door. The faint scent of eucalyptus from the diffuser mingled with the lingering musk of sweat and leather, grounding the space in an intimate, familiar cocoon.

You pressed your hands gently along his back, feeling the taut muscles beneath your fingertips tense and then slowly begin to loosen under your touch. The warmth radiating from his skin was steady, steady enough to calm the knot of adrenaline still pulsing through your own veins.

There was an unspoken understanding in the air between you no need for words. He wasn’t Lewis Hamilton here, the untouchable, celebrated champion. He was simply Lewis, the man who had, bit by bit, allowed you into his carefully guarded world, even if only a little.

When you finished, you took a step back, wiping your hands on the towel. You glanced up at him, silently waiting for a response. But instead of breaking the quiet with words, he rose slowly, moving toward you with a deliberate calmness that made your heart beat a little faster.

The space between you shrank in an instant, the distance closing until you could feel the warmth of his breath brush against your skin. You looked up at him, your breath catching somewhere between surprise and anticipation. His eyes locked onto yours dark, unreadable pools that seemed to hold a thousand unspoken emotions.

Almost instinctively, his hand rose, fingers trembling just slightly as they tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was feather-light, the soft brush of his skin against your cheek sending a quiet thrill through you.

You stood frozen, heart racing, as his fingers lingered warm and gentle softer than anything you’d expected from the fiercely driven man you knew. Time seemed to slow, compressing the world around you into a small, fragile bubble where nothing else existed but the two of you.

His eyes searched yours, as if trying to decipher every hidden feeling you hadn’t dared voice. His breath was steady but measured, betraying a subtle tension beneath the surface like he was waging an internal battle, the same storm you both seemed to be navigating in your own ways.

The distant drone of engines and chatter outside faded into white noise, replaced by the soft rhythm of your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Thank you” His voice was a low whisper, heavy with meaning, thick with vulnerability that made your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t expected.

His gaze softened further, shedding the public persona like a worn coat. This was the part of him few ever glimpsed—the Lewis behind the driver’s helmet the man who had slowly quietly let you in.

He took a hesitant step closer, the warmth of his body nearly merging with yours. You could feel the magnetic pull, but this time, the air between you wasn’t charged with tension or uncertainty. It was calm, peaceful, and filled with something unspoken but deeply understood a quiet connection forged through trust.

“I’m not always this...asshole of a person,” he admitted, voice rough with self-awareness. “I’m sorry I pushed you away when you were just trying to do your job.”

He paused, searching your face as if weighing how much of himself he could afford to reveal. “I don’t know how to do this.”

You shook your head gently, stepping just enough closer to close the gap between uncertainty and possibility.

“You don’t have to know,” you said softly, your hand rising to rest over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I’m here. As your physiotherapist. And, if you want, something more.”

For a moment, his eyes flickered with an emotion you couldn’t quite name a complex mix of gratitude, longing, and something like fear.

Then, without hesitation, he closed the space between you.

His lips met yours in a tentative kiss, soft and questioning at first, as if he was testing the reality of the moment, unsure if it was something he deserved or even wanted to believe in.

But when you leaned in, matching his pace, the kiss deepened an intimate exchange that left you breathless. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, the heat of his body seeping into yours, grounding you in the here and now.

His lips were tender, deliberate, as though every brush and press was trying to say what words could not. You felt it in the gentle tracing of his fingers along your back, in the way his entire being seemed to magnetically draw yours nearer.

When you finally pulled away, breath shallow and heart pounding, a quiet smile curved his lips—soft, genuine, far from the bravado he wore like a second skin.

His eyes, usually guarded and inscrutable, held something raw and real something he’d been hiding for too long.

“Does that feel real enough?” he teased, voice low but laced with warmth, the familiar glint of humour returning to his gaze.

You smiled back, fingertips still brushing lightly over the collar of his shirt, anchoring yourself in this moment of fragile clarity.

“More real than anything,” you whispered.

And in that quiet, shared space inside his motorhome, surrounded by the fading sounds of a racing world, you both knew this was only the beginning -

Of something neither of you could yet name, but both were ready to face.

Because you weren’t just his physiotherapist anymore.

And he wasn’t just the superstar you worked for.

You were something new. Something uncertain, but fiercely alive.

And somehow, in that moment, it already felt like home.

[lacevenom]

exhausting days — academia ! pack headcanon ☆ 𓂂 ˚ ☆. ꙳

PAIRING : pack x reader

SUMMARY : request — you’re always aiming for perfect grades, scholarship goals, but recently, you’ve stopped sleeping, started skipping meals, and the light in your eyes has dimmed. the boys notice and they step in.

JACOB

he’s the first to say something. you come home late one night, laptop still open in your arms, and he gently closes it.

“you don’t have to prove anything, especially not to me.”

he pulls you into his chest, wraps you in his warmth, and whispers how proud he already is. that he fell in love with your heart, not your report cards. he makes you soup, tucks you in, and reads aloud until you fall asleep. he becomes your study break timer. strict but gentle.

“twenty minutes of studying. then you cuddle me. no exceptions.”

EMBRY

worried sick. He can feel when you’re pushing yourself too far, and it makes him anxious.

“you forgot to eat again, didn’t you?”

he leaves snacks and little notes in your bag like “your brain deserves a cookie” or “one test won’t ruin your life, but burnout might.”

embry shows up at your desk with takeout, insists on a walk along first beach, and lets you rant for hours while he listens like you’re the only sound in the world.

he’s your number one supporter but also worried that you’ll burn yourself out.

he’s soft, reassuring, and always reminds you that it’s okay to rest without guilt.

PAUL

paul being paul is absolutely pissed off that the system pushes you this hard.

“you’re a human being, not a machine.”

he drags you away from the laptop—literally scoops you up sometimes—and forces you to lie on the couch while he braids your hair or rubs your back.

he’s not great with words, but when he sees you cry from stress, he nearly phases out of frustration. he holds you so tight, whispering, “you don’t have to do this alone. let me carry some of it.”

if anyone dares call you lazy for slowing down, paul is ready to throw hands.

JARED

at first, he tries to joke it off alling you “miss harvard” or “professor Y/N.” every time he sees you with a textbook. but the minute he sees you asleep at your desk, highlighter still in hand, dark circles under your eyes? he gets serious fast.

“babe. no grade is worth losing you to burnout.”

he starts quizzing you just to keep you from spiraling, but always mixes in silly questions like, “what’s the name of the hot guy who loves you more than sleep?”

he’ll toss you over his shoulder and carry you to bed, “you’re a genius, but even geniuses need naps. get in bed. I’ll tuck you in and everything.”

QUIL

he makes it his mission to make you laugh. he’ll show up at your window in the middle of the night with a blanket, your favorite snacks, and a dumb movie queued up.

“no work allowed. only cuddles and cartoons.”

he notices the little things. the way your eyes lose their spark or how your shoulders hunch under pressure. quil brings the light back by being your silly, sunshiney safe space. he reminds you that you’re still allowed to live and be young.

“you’re brilliant, babe. but you don’t have to burn out to shine.”

SETH

he checks in constantly, like your personal mental health cheerleader. sends you texts like “you drank water today, right? I’m watching you.”

he volunteers to quiz you but in fun ways. if you get an answer right, he kisses your forehead. get it wrong? you still get a kiss, just to remind you that love isn’t conditional.

he writes you silly motivational poems and makes playlists called “you are doing amazing sweetie.”

when you finally cry into his chest, seth just holds you and says, “you don’t need to do everything perfectly. just stay, okay? stay with us.”

LEAH

she gets it on a deep level. she knows what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself to outwork, out-achieve, out-everything.

but she refuses to watch you break.

“overachieving doesn’t mean over-exhausting.”

leah is the one who sets up structure. she helps you build a healthy schedule, keeps you accountable in the most loving but terrifying way.

she’ll sit beside you while you study and literally swipe your laptop closed when your eyes start to glaze.

“you’re not weak for resting. you’re not lazy. you’re human.”

eventually after seeing you extremely exhausted and tired she’ll pull you into the safest hug.

SAM

quietly observant. he’s the one who sees the early signs before anyone else.

he pulls you aside one day, makes you tea, and sits with you in comfortable silence. then says,

“i know what it feels like to carry too much on your shoulders.”

he shares a little of his own story how pressure nearly broke him once too. and he reminds you that the strength you have doesn’t come from perfection, but from resilience.

sam gently sets boundaries for you. he makes sure you rest, makes sure you know you’re loved even when you do nothing.

[super-ion]

The Engineer

Part 5

(Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4)

I sure wish I could get some hardware interface testing, today's tech tells me with a disgusting smirk. His eyes make a shameless sweep of my skinsuit.

Normally, I wouldn't stare him down. Normally, I would hunch my shoulders and pretend that the joke slid right off me.

I haven't felt normal since my encounter with the Pilot in that dimly lit observation room two nights ago.

I stare until his smirk slides from his face and he begins to squirm.

I turn away, putting him out of my mind.

Morrigan and I have a date. That is to say, we do, in fact, have hardware interface testing on the schedule today. Her primary neural interface has been upgraded and I need to run it through its diagnostics, a task I am uniquely qualified for with the engineer's rig and my intimate knowledge of Her systems.

I'm… giddy. Nervous, even.

This will be the first time I plug into Her since my encounter with Her Pilot - the first time since she touched my face, since she roughly pressed her lips to my neck while I surrendered to her, with Morrigan watching the whole time.

I shudder at the memory and linger in the vestibule. I place a hand on Morrigan's bulkhead as I always do. I feel that distant thrum of Her, the dull rumble of Her heart.

“Hey beautiful,” I say to Her as I always do.

I think of the Pilot. I think of piercing blue eyes and I think of neural bleed.

I think of teeth scraping against tender flesh at the base of my neck. I think of those slender fingers winding themselves through my hair.

A noise behind me. The tech clears his throat.

My face heats and I flinch my hand away.

I climb into the cockpit to find that the cradle is already reconfigured for me. Every one of Morrigan's cockpit cameras are focused on me with a new, special kind of eagerness.

She did watch us. I'm certain of it. Even if she hadn't, the Pilot has been here and already shared everything with her.

I let out a nervous breath and clamber into the embrace of her cradle. I let Her slip into me, physically and mentally. I let Her fill the space where my loneliness is a tangible aching thing.

Telemetry streams fill my consciousness. The ping comes almost immediately after connection is established.

- STATUS?

What is my status? Before two nights ago, I had enough trouble answering that question. Now everything is more confused than ever.

“I met the Pilot,” I reply. “Your Pilot. She kissed me. I let her…”

I drag my hands over my face. Why does this feel like I'm admitting to cheating on her?

- DID YOU ENJOY IT?

I nod.

Her delight (at least as much as a machine like her can experience delight) is palpable over the neural interface. Something like relief flows through me.

Of course it doesn't bother her, why would it?

I sigh and kick off the first of a long series of diagnostic tests. As firmware validation check results start popping up in my hud, I let my mind wander.

Wander is a generous term. My mind immediately returns to the singular subject that has occupied my thoughts.

The Pilot presses herself against me. Her lips press against the space where my neck meets my shoulder, her teeth nipping gently. Her hand trails down my side, finds the hem of my shirt and lifts slightly, skin touching skin...

The memory brings with it the ghost of sensation.

All around me, Morrigan hums. All the little noises in the cockpit, all the clicks and whirs and beeps, seem to take on a new meaning as she witnesses the memory play back in my mind.

“You think a lot about neural bleed.”

I'm thinking about neural bleed now. I'm thinking about how the next time the Pilot jacks in, she will find the ghost of my thoughts in Morrigan's system. She will know how it made my breath come fast, how the memory made me stiffen. How my hands wandered unbidden along my skinsuit…

I'm not alone.

My eyes snap open in a panic and…

There she is, hovering at the threshold to the vestibule.

I don't know how long the Pilot has been watching me. Her eyes shine with the same intensity as ever, but… hungry, wanting.

It's too much. Her knowing about Morrigan and me, Morrigan knowing about us, those are one thing. Her being here now, me here with the two of them together, it's too much.

My face heats and I mumble some unintelligible apology. I send a command to Morrigan to disengage. I attempt to sit up and-

She presses a hand to my chest and shoves me back into the cradle.

“You're not going anywhere,” she purrs.

Morrigan has not disengaged.

My breath catches in my throat.

The Pilot climbs the rest of the way into the cockpit and cycles the bulkhead closed.

The space is barely big enough for the two of us and the intimacy of it sends my heart racing anew.

“Wh-what?” I gasp. “Somebody will catch us.”

“I don't fucking care,” she says as she straddles me and produces an auxiliary neural interface cable from an overhead receptacle. “Me or Morrigan could get dead in the next engagement. I don't have the time or patience to pussyfoot around.”

“They could reassign me,” I protest, “or worse.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she says with a hint of a sly grin. “You'll find that pilots usually get what we want around here.”

I can't tell if she means getting what she wants from me or from our superiors.

She hesitates, interface cable dangling in her hand. It's that same hesitation from two nights earlier, only this time it's a question for me.

Morrigan herself seems to pause with her own bated metaphorical breath. A sort of gentle hopefulness trickles over the link.

I should say no. I should excuse myself. That would be the smart rational thing to do.

I'm too close. I'm too close to both of them now.

I give the Pilot a nod.

I watch as she contorts herself, stretching her lithe arms to reach the jack in her own rig. I watch as she slides the the plug of the interface into herself. I watch as she shudders and sighs, dropping her arms and closing her eyes. I watch as her body relaxes, and for the first time since I've known her, she becomes still.

New status messages flash in my field of vision. A second user has logged in.

She opens her eyes and looks around the cramped cockpit.

“This is how you experience it?” she says.

“What?”

“The link,” she says. “There's no haptics. No biochem. It's so... shallow.”

My heart falls.

She blinks in surprise, her eyes distant.

“Fuck. I'm sorry,” she says softly. “I didn't mean it like that. I...”

My face must have given me away, or my body language. She leans towards me and brushes her lips tenderly against mine.

Then I understand. It wasn't anything on my face.

I can feel her. I feel her against me, but I also feel me against her.

It isn't sensorium. I can't feel what she physically feels. But emotion is information and information flows freely over the link.

I don't feel her so much as I feel her emotional reaction to the touch.

Neural bleed.

I open my mouth and drink her in. I wrap my arms around her to pull her close. One of us moans, I can't tell who at this point.

She pulls away.

“Holy shit,” I gasp.

“Yeah?” she replies and…

Holy shit.

Morrigan begins playing back the moments just before the Pilot Interrupted us - the memory, my need, my wandering hands.

The Pilot makes a small self-satisfied grin. I can feel her satisfaction over the link. I can feel her own reactive wanting.

Fuck. I can even feel Morrigan's need.

"The three of us, we're just this fucking tangle, aren't we?"

“You liked that, huh?” she says, leaning towards me. "Our little tryst?"

I nod.

“Can't stop thinking about it?”

I nod again.

She leans in real close and I dare not move as she brushes her lips against my ear.

“There's just one problem,” she whispers. “I think that Babygirl feels a bit left out.”

I gasp as something closes over my wrists, my ankles.

I crane my neck to look over to where safety restraints in the cradle have closed over me.

"Can't let Her get jealous, can we?" she whispers with a nip at my ear.

The Pilot straightens and spreads her arms. The space in the cockpit is so close that her fingers touch both sides easily. She draws her arms overhead, fingers drifting over the panels. She stretches languidly, the hard lines of her body on full display under her own skinsuit.

Desire and need pulse over the link - the Pilot's and Morrigan's and my own reflected back at me.

“How about we give you something else you can't stop thinking about?”

~~~~~

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